






















SEVEN YEARS, 


/ 


AND OTHER 


TALES. 


BY 

JULIA KA VAN AG II, 

AUTHOR OF 

‘NATHALIE,” “ADELE,” “THE TWO SICILIES,’ 

&c. &c. 


THREE VOLUMES IN ONE. 

> .> 

• * > a 

NEW YORK: 

i 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

346 & 348 BROADWAY. 

1860. 


/ 



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By Sxoi'angQ 
^nuiv nnd Navy Chifr 

M«-y 132& 







SEVEN 


YEARS. 


-• & e- 

CHAPTER I. 

Of all the venerable places of Paris, the Marais may be 
entitled peer and prince. Other places may boast antiquity 
more remote;—none can vie with the recollections of past 
splendour which still linger around this. Here, under the 
reign of the most magnificent monarch of France, once revelled 
the gayest and most luxurious of the French nobility. Here 
they raised noble and enduring mansions, which the hand of 
time long respected, and which the hammer of the leveller 
now shamelessly pulls down one after the other, reckless and 
regardless of the historical tokens it is destroying; sweeping 
away memorials of Louis Quatorze, whom his contemporaries 
styled the Great, dwellings still haunted by the frolics of his 
nobles and the gaieties of his court beauties, and consigning 
them all to dust and oblivion with philosophic indifference and 
impartiality. 

The Marais, however, is not all pulled down. It is still 
celebrated for its open stately streets, which trade is slowly in¬ 
vading, for its large hotels, which commerce now possesses, and 
for the broad airy gardens which every now and then extend 
at the back of those lordly-looking abodes, filling the whole 
neighbourhood with the sweet spring fragrance of young 
lilac trees, or the rich summer perfume of invisible roses in 
bloom. 

In one of the finest streets of the Marais there stood some 
years ago a noble-looking mansion, which answered to number 
two. The lofty gateway and arches, the sculptured windows, 
and cast-iron balconies; the high slate-covered roof and the 
tall stacks of chimneys that topped all, like the battlements of 
a city, bespoke the importance of this dwelling. Yet through 
that arched gateway, which stood ever open, appeared un- 




4 


SEVEN YEARS. 


mistakeable tokens that if stone and mortar were stont as 
ever, the mutability of fortune had affected this once splendid 
abode. Several boards, nailed on the wall by the staircase, 
and covered with painted characters, referred you to the various 
inhabitants of the mansion, and corresponded to other sign¬ 
boards dangling from the iron balconies. Lamps were to be 
had on the second floor; buhl furniture on the third; a lace- 
mender tenanted the fourth * the lodgers of the fifth were too 
humble to claim public attention by any mural inscription. 
They were satisfied to exist, and left the dignity of boards and 
signs to their betters. 

Every Paris house is built round a yard, and the more an¬ 
cient the house, the wider this yard is: the rule at least has 
few exceptions. The yard or court of this house, for it de¬ 
served the name, was square, paved, and surrounded with 
walls and windows, out of which various heads often peeped,— 
heads that did not exactly recall the aristocratic type or the 
splendid attire of the courtiers of Louis Quatorze. Rough 
unshaved faces and blue blouses for the men, plain white caps 
and cotton dresses for the women, made the contrast as strik¬ 
ing as any republican heart need have wished it. This was 
indeed the democratic part of the abode; it had nothing to do 
with the substantial and decorous tenants of the second, third, 
and fourth floors. Two mean, dark, and modern staircases 
led to the various lodgings of that cour , which Madame Grand, 
the portress of the whole house, held in supreme contempt, 
not to say abhorrence : whereas a real genuine old staircase, 
coeval with the house itself,—a staircase that opened near the 
door of the lodge under shelter of the gateway,—conducted 
with gentle and easy ascent to those apartments with windows 
on the street, which had Madame Grand’s particular favour, as 
being tenanted by decent people, and especially, for the world 
is the same all the world over, by people of substance. 

The English system of building is not favourable to the de¬ 
velopment of staircase; narrow, wooden, and mean, it climbs 
up two floors and an attic, and, having done what it had to do, 
it stops. It may be covered with carpet or oil-cloth, or it may 
not be covered at all,—a mean staircase it is, and will be on to 
the end. 

The continental staircase aims at grandeur; it may not 
always attain its object, but a sort of dignity is the result of 
the attempt. The staircases of the Marais, and especially 
when they claim the seventeenth century as the date of their 
existence, are famous for their stateliness. The broad and 


SEVEN YEAES. 


5 


low stone steps ascend slowly, guarded by iron banisters rich 
in foliage and renaissance ornaments. Such a staircase was 
that of this particular house : too grand by far for the lamps 
on the second floor, for the buhl furniture on the third, and 
the lace-mending business on the fourth, but by no means un¬ 
suited to the quiet, lady-like tenant of the premier etage, 
Madame la Roche. 

Madame la Roche was born in number two, like her 
mother and her mother’s mother before her; for this house, 
which was her property, always descended in the female line, 
and In number two Madame la Roche, who was seventy and 
more, devoutly hoped to live and die. The house had under¬ 
gone many changes in passing through various hands, but the 
handsome suite of rooms on the first floor had remained almost 
unaltered since they were first fitted up and furnished for the 
great-grandmother of Madame la Roche, who entered them a 
youthful bride of seventeen. 

The furniture was handsome, substantial, and good, and a 
constitutional indolence, hereditary in the lady proprietresses 
of the place, had resisted the insidious innovations of fashion. 
Accordingly the museum of Cluny itself scarcely boasted more 
treasures in carved cabinets, inlaid tables, precious china, and 
curiosities of all sorts, than did the rooms of Madame la 
Roche, who was lazily glad to be possessed of so many valua¬ 
bles, but who in reality, and save for the sake of old family 
associations, did not care one rush about them all. 

In these large, roomy, and comfortable rooms, that looked 
out on the street and ignored the vulgar yard behind, Madame 
la Roche lived on all the more pleasantly that she possessed 
and enjoyed the privilege and luxury of a garden, which, 
though small, rivalled the suspended gardens of Babylon, 
being like them artificially raised above the common level of 
this world. 

Number two was a corner house. 

Madame la Roche’s rooms ended in and gave out on a 
square terrace, which formed the angle of two streets, and in¬ 
terposed between both the green sward of a little pelouse, the 
silver spray of a diminutive fountain, and the foliage and 
flowers of luxuriant lilac and laburnum trees. A bosquet 
covered with roses, where Madame la Roche liked to sit, and 
a handsome aviary, completed the delights of the place. To 
crown all, it was not overlooked by more than a dozen win¬ 
dows ; some people, indeed, might have thought this too 
much, but Madame la Roche, who had never done any thing 


6 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


in lier life, had nothing to hide, and would have lived in a 
glass house with perfect satisfaction to herself. 

In this garden, for a garden it was, a young girl walked 
gathering flowers, on a lovely May morning, some years ago. 
It was early yet; the grass sparkled with dew, which falls alike 
not merely on the good and the wicked, but on city guilt and pas¬ 
toral innocence ; the fragrance of the lilac and of the laburnum 
was almost overpowering ; the little fountain splashed merrily in 
its stone basin edged with bright flowers, and the birds in the 
aviary sang their most gleesome carols, whilst daring sparrows 
pecked the seed scattered by the wealthy little prodigals, and 
hopped about pert and free in the sanded walks. The young 
girl paused in the path she was following, put her hand in a 
tiny apron pocket, drew out some crumbs, which she scattered 
at her feet, and immediately an eager crowd gathered around 
her fearless and confident. 

The young girl looked at them with a pleased and tri¬ 
umphant smile, unconscious that, as she stood there with her 
flowers in her hand, she afforded a subject of contemplation to 
a tall and stout young upholsterer opposite, who stood conven¬ 
iently on a ladder, not indeed for the purpose of looking at her, 
for he was hanging up chairs in his newly-opened shop, but who 
yet made the most of the advantage he derived from this ele¬ 
vated position by taking a survey of the garden and its early 
tenant. 

She was very young, barely sixteen, and even fastidious 
eyes might have been pleased with her light supple figure and 
graceful motions; but, though her dark hair neatly plaited 
shone in the sun, though her mobile face had all the expres¬ 
sive vivacity of the Parisian type, if the name of type can in¬ 
deed be given to anything belonging to that complex race, the 
young girl was not pretty. Her complexion was pale and even 
sallow, and she was decidedly thin. Her attire was neat but 
simple; a little cotton print dress and white collar and sleeves 
proved her to be a true Parisian in taste and toilette. 

The sparrows were fed, and, resuming her task of gather¬ 
ing flowers, the young girl was turning round, when her quick 
eye,perceived, above the low stone wall that surrounded the 
garden, the full outlines of a masculine face. She did not 
pause in her task, but darting a second glance, she endeavoured 
to discover to whom the face belonged. She perceived the 
ladder, and standing on it the charmed gazer, whose eyes 
seemed rivetted on her every motion. She also saw, though 
he did not, two or three workingmen in the shop, curiously 


SEVEN YEAES. 


1 


watching their master on the ladder, and evidently unable to 
guess what he was looking at so intently. She could even in 
the morning stillness of the streets overhear their comments 
on the subject. 

u The master is studying the design of Madame la Roche’s 
window draperies,” said one man. 

“ Real Louis Quinze style, I believe,” replied another. 

The young girl, determined to undeceive them, though not 
caring to appear, here raised her voice, and began to sing in 
tones so young and gay as to prove very clearly that the in¬ 
dividual on the ladder might have some more modern object 
to contemplate than the Louis Quinze draperies of Madame, 
la Roche. 

“ Oh ho ! ” said the first of the two speakers in the shop. 

The other lauMied without restraint. 

O 

The young man on the ladder coloured to the very temples, 
and slowly descended; the young girl in the garden, delighted 
at his exposure, continued singing as any lark, and did not 
enter until her apron was full of flowers. She then pushed 
open a glass door, and stepping into a handsome dining-room, 
gaily lit with the morning sun, she began settling her flowers 
in a pair of old blue china vases, that looked made to set off 
their brilliant colours. 

Presently one of the doors of the dining-room opened, and 
a short, stout, and round woman, long past middle age, put 
her head in, and said coaxingly : 

u Fanny, dear, can you come ? ’’ 

“ Not on any account,” calmly replied Fanny; 11 you see, 
Marie, how I am engaged.” 

“ Why yes, so you are,” answered Marie, “ so you are. I 
always tell Charlotte so.” And her head vanished. 

Presently another door opened, and another female face, 
older, calmer, and paler than Marie's, made its appearance. 

“ Child,” it said, “ I think it is time to attend to that 
ironing.” 

“ I shall see to nothing till I have settled my flowers,” re- 
belliously replied Fanny. 

There was a pause as of doubt, then the head vanished, 
the door closed, and Fanny was left mistress of the field. She 
continued her task like one too much accustomed to such victo¬ 
ries to care for them; but the low twinkling of a silver bell was 
heard in a room within. At once Fanny threw down her 
flowers, and darted away to answer the summons. 


8 


SEVEN TEARS. 


CHAPTER II. 

Madame la Roche was sitting in an arm-chair in her room 
Heavy damask curtains half hid the lofty bed ,* ancient en 
gravings and tarnished portraits in oval frames hung on the 
walls; lady-like knick-nacks were scattered about on spindle- 
legged tables. Pots-pourris, vases of every shape, screens and 
stands numberless, made a pretty confusion about the place. 
The window was open, the morning air came in and breathed 
gently over Madame la Roche, who sat, as we said, in an arm¬ 
chair, with composure in her calm face, and the happiness of 
repose in her hands gently folded on her knees. A loose morn¬ 
ing gown robed her person, a pretty morning cap framed her 
face, soft, aged, and fair ; a face on which care had left few 
lines, and these few time had gently smoothed away. 

At her hand stood a small table, on which was placed the 
little silver dinner-bell with which Madame la Roche had sum¬ 
moned attendance, and which the young girl had so promptly 
answered, that it had scarcely ceased to ring before the lady’s 
door opened, and Panny appeared on the threshold. 

“ My dear, it was Marie I rang for,” said Madame la 
Roche, smiling. 

“But I was there in the diningroom,” replied Fanny, a 
little jealously, “ there was no harm in coming.” 

“ Oh ! no,” meditatively said the elder lady, “ I do not 
think there can be harm in that. Well, child, I rang to say 
that I think I shall breakfast in the garden this morning.” 

u I shall get it all ready,” cried Fanny, with great eager¬ 
ness. “ In five minutes I shall come for you.” 

“ Yery well, my dear,” placidly replied Madame la Roche; 
u you need not hurry ; ten minutes will do.” 

But Fanny was already gone. With a calm wonder at the 
strange hastiness of youth, Madame la Roche again leaned 
back in her chair, smoothed her lap, and once more folded up¬ 
on it her dimpled white hands, hands made for idleness, or, as 
Madame la Roche would have said in the polite and courtly 
speech with which she clothed her thoughts, “ hands which 
Nature had intended for repose.” 

Fortune had kindly seconded Nature in the case of Madame 
la Roche. She was born, nursed, and reared in affluence. She 
married young a rich lawyer, w T ho soon left her a widow, with 
a handsome fortune and an only child, a daughter, who mar- 


9 


SEVEN YEARS. 

ried early like her mother, and like her mother was wedded to 
happiness and prosperity. 

Thus, with few cares and sorrows, with little to trouble her, 
and almost nothing to do, Madame la Roche had led the 
smoothest of smooth lives, aud calmly reached her seventieth 
year. She had a kind heart, an amiable temper, a very easy 
disposition, and only a few passive faults, from which no one 
had ever suffered. Her life had been spent in the house in 
which we now find her; here she was born, and here, like her 
predecessors, she devoutly hoped to die, u as late as I can,” she 
smilingly added. In the meantime Madame la Roche kept a 
man-servant, a cook, two maids nearly as old as herself, and, 
instead of the parrot or lap dog which every lady worn in years 
is expected to possess, a merry girl of sixteen, named Fanny, 
who happened to be the god-daughter of her maid Charlotte. 
With the chatter of Fanny Madame la Roche amused herself; 
when her garden and rooms did not afford her sufficient exer¬ 
cise she took a drive in an ancient family carriage, and called 
on a few friends, whom every now and then she invited to din¬ 
ner. Every Sunday she went to hear mass and vespers in the 
neighbouring church. How the rest of her time was spent 
Madame la Roche would have found it hard to say, but though 
she might certainly have led a more useful life, even scandal 
herself could not say that her existence could be more harm¬ 
less than it was. Her temper was all but perfect, and it was 
almost a matter of history that no one had ever seen Madame 
la Roche disturbed. 

Still as five minutes went by, then ten, and even fifteen, 
and as neither Fanny nor breakfast appeared, Madame la 
Roche wondered gently, moved in her chair, and finally 
stretched out her hand and rung again with just a touch of 
impatience. This first call not being answered, she renewed 
it, and presently the door opened, Marie appeared, and walked 
in with a resolute look. We have already said that Marie 
was short, round, and stout; we may add that she now wore 
a conical Norman cap, that she had a red face, a quick eye, a 
quick tongue, and considerable vigour of mind and body. 
Fastidious j)eople thought Marie rather fiery, and spoke about 
her temper, but it was agreed that her heart was in the right 
place,—for it seems this useful organ is not always where it 
should be in the human frame,—and this advantage was held 
sufficient to counteract many faults. 

“ Marie,” began Madame la Roche, “I have rung twice.” 

u I was ironing,”’ said Marie shortly, “ doing Madame 
1 * 


10 


SEVEN YEARS. 


Charlotte’s work. Besides, Madame knows this is my time 
for putting on my cap.” 

Madame la Roche did not attempt to dispute the latter ar¬ 
gument. The hat of G essler himself was not a sterner emblem 
of absolute power in ill-fated Uri, than the lofty cap of Marie 
in Madame la Roche’s household. She added to its importance 
by referring to it in a stately fashion, that admitted of no 
joking or light talk on the subject. And every one accordingly 
stood in secret or acknowledged dread of it; every one from 
Madame la Roche downwards, save Fanny, who was a spoiled, 
irreverent child, and afraid of nothing the sun shone upon. 

u Could not Fanny have helped you to iron ? ” said Mad¬ 
ame la Roche. 

“ Fanny! ” cried Marie, firing up, 11 Fanny was in the gar¬ 
den gathering flowers. I did not think Madame -would turn 
upon Fanny ! ” 

11 Dear me ! ” exclaimed Madame la Roche, “ I did not 
think of that; the dear child cannot be in two places at once, 
of course.” 

“ There is nothing Fanny does not do to please Madame, 
I am sure.” 

“I never complain of'her,” placidly said Madame la 
Roche; “ I am sorry you do sometimes, Marie.” 

“ I, Madame?” Marie looked suffocated, to use the French 
idiom. 

“ Yes, I heard you grumbling this morning because the 
flaps of your cap were not ironed out to your liking. I do 
not wish to hear Fanny grumbled at.” 

“ Oh ! if Madame begins at my poor cap,” sarcastically said 
Marie. 

“ Dear me,” plaintively said her mistress, “ it is not your cap 
I care about just now, but my breakfast, which I cannot get.” 

Before Marie could open her lips and say she was and had 
long been aware that Madame did not care about her or her 
cap either, the door opened, and Charlotte appeared like a 
dove of peace. Marie snuffed and tossed her head. She and 
Charlotte were inseparable foes of forty-five years’ standing, 
united but on one point—love for Fanny, though each affected 
to consider the other the enemy, or at least the antagonist, of 
this common darling. 

Charlotte was short and stout like Marie, though she did 
not in the least resemble her. Hers was a mild breadth of 
countenance, a placid weight of figure, to which the vivacious 
Marie had no claim. Like Marie, she had a temper of her 


SEVEN YEARS. 


11 


own, but it was sweet and honeyed even whilst it provoked, 
and, bee-like, stung to the quick. Charlotte was a widow, and 
had nursed Madame la Roche’s daughter, in virtue of which 
office she assumed a calm dignity nothing could ruffle, and 
which did more than anything else to disturb Marie’s equa¬ 
nimity. 

How Madame la Roche got on between these two domi¬ 
neering spirits no one exactly knew. Both treated her like 
their peculiar property, but after different methods. Marie 
thought it good to rouse her mistress, and Charlotte to 
smooth her down. Madame la Roche let them both have 
their way, happy if she could now and then have hers. But, 
as we said, Charlotte now came as a dove of peace, and, ig¬ 
noring Marie’s aggressive sniff, she said soothingly: 

“Breakfast is ready, if Madame will come out to it.” 

Madame la Roche rose and took Charlotte’s arm. Marie 
looked on wrathfully, and asked sharply : “ May I know what 
Madame rang for ? ” 

“ I do not feel very strong,” evasively replied Madame la 
Roche, “ give me your arm too, Marie.” Thus supported on 
either side, the gentle and politic lady walked through stately 
rooms out into the terrace-like garden, where Fanny stood 
beaming with smiles ready to receive and lead her to the 
bosquet. Here, though she had taken somewhat more than 
five minutes to prepare it, she had certainly provided a most 
dainty-looking little dejeuner. A snow-white cloth covered 
the rude garden table. Elegant sevres china waited for the 
rich coffee in the old silver coffee-pot; croissants, a very 
pleasant French cake, a variety of small loaves, and pats of 
fresh butter, appeared on several plates. The two old ser¬ 
vants uttered exclamations of delight. 

“ Beautiful! ” said Charlotte. 

u No one does it like her! ” cried Marie, 

“ My dear,” said Madame la Roche smiling, “your reward 
shall be to breakfast with me.” 

“ And we will wait on you both,” zealously volunteered Marie. 

Fanny was too much accustomed to such favours to dis¬ 
pute them. She sat down opposite her kind protectress and 
breakfasted with her without using a bit of ceremony, either 
in accepting the compliment, or in allowing her god-mother or 
Marie to wait on her. 

It was no unusual event to see Madame la Roche break¬ 
fast in the garden; yet numerous heads soon appeared at the 
various windows that overlooked it, for the laudable purpose 


12 


SEVEN YEARS. 


of watching the proceedings below, and of overhearing such 
snatches of the conversation as might rise upwards; to which 
impertinent survey Madame la Roche and Fanny both re¬ 
mained indifferent. That Marie felt more on the subject than 
they did a remark uttered by Charlotte soon made apparent. 

44 How red you are in the face, Marie,” she kindly remarked, 
— 44 quite pimply.” 

a Perhaps I am, and perhaps I am not,” shortly said 
Marie. 

44 A great deal depends on temper,” pursued Charlotte, 44 as 
I often told my daughter Monica, who is now in America with 
her good-for-nothing husband, poor dear,—as I often told her, 
4 look at me, child, you see what a clear, smooth complexion I 
have; all temper, love, all temper. Be passionate, and you 
will be red; be calm, and you will be clear and pale.’ No 
one knows what temper has to do with complexion.” 

44 Temper or complexion, I know this much,” wrathfully 
said Marie, 44 that if I had the head of that fellow up there 
under my right arm, and that of the grinning little monkey by 
him under my left arm, I should squeeze them both soundly ! ” 

44 Dear me, what an extraordinary wish ! ” said Madame 
la Roche, putting down her cup and looking calmly surprised. 
44 I once heard of a Roman Emperor who wished all the world 
had but one head—but do you know, Marie, it would hurt 
you,” added Madame la Roche, suddenly struck with that 
practical objection to Marie’s plan. 

“ I should not care,” recklessly said Marie, “ I hate look¬ 
ers-on.” 

“ Let them look,” good-naturedly replied Madame la 
Roche; “they like to see the birds, I dare say, and the 
flowers, and Fanny.” 

“ If is all Marie’s cap,” remarked Charlotte ; 44 she will not 
believe that Parisians never will get accustomed to those high 
steeple-like caps.” 

44 1 have worn my Norman cap sixty years,”—loftily began 
Marie. ° 

“ And more,” put in Charlotte,— 44 sixty-five years at 
least, Marie.” 

. Take a way the things,” hastily said Madame la Roche, 
rising; 44 Fanny, my love, give me your arm and show me the 
new flowers.” 

The new flowers were as far from the seene of contest as 
the limits of the garden allowed. They had been set at the 
foot of the low wall that overlooked the street. Madame la 


SEVEN YEARS. 


13 


Roche bent over them as if to inhale their fragrance, then 
looking clown at the newly-opened shop opposite, she said 
slowly : “ Fanny, my dear, who is that young man that never 
took his eyes off of you whilst we were at breakfast ? ” 

Fanny’s eyes were deceitfully raised to every third and 
fourth floor of every surrounding house, as with a look of 
great innocence she answered : “ I see no young man, Mad¬ 
ame.” 

“ No, my dear, not up there, but down below in the up¬ 
holsterer’s shop there is a very tall young man, who looked at 
you so much whilst we were at breakfast, that I scarcely think 
it was the first time he did it. Do you know who he is ? ” 

“ The master of that new upholsterer’s shop, I believe,” 
replied Fanny. 

“ Can you read his name for me, my dear ? ” 
u Jean Baptiste Watt,” said Fanny, casting a careless 
glance over the gilt letters of the new shop. 

11 Very well,” said Madame la Roche, drawing herself up 
slightly, “ I shall give Monsieur Jean Baptiste Watt one or 
two further trials; and if he continues to stare so at you, I 
shall politely recpiest him to discontinue his impertinence, and 
remind him that it is rude and unneiglibour-like to intrude 
even his looks on the privacy of two ladies enjoying themselves 
in their own garden.” 

Fanny smiled demurely, and Madame la Roche, satisfied 
with the lofty resolve to which she had arrived, took a turn 
round her garden, and enjoyed her pelouse, her fountain, and 
her birds, like the owner of thirty acres. 


CHAPTER III. 

Fanny was a dressmaker by trade. She went out to work 
almost every day. She fed the birds or gathered flowers be¬ 
fore she left, whilst Madame la Roche was still in her room. 
How, therefore, could her protectress watch over the good or 
bad behaviour of their young neighbour ? And as it so hap¬ 
pened that Fanny neither complained of him nor alluded to 
him in any fashion, the matter slipped out of the good lady’s 
mind, and Jean Baptiste Watt looked, or did not look, at his 
pleasure. Charlotte, who never put her foot in the garden 
when she could help doing so, exercised no surveillance over 
her god-daughter, and when Marie entered its precincts it was 
to scowl up at the window of the two offenders on whose heads 


14 


SEVEN YEARS. 


she had longed to visit the condign punishment Madame la 
Roche deprecated. On the low regions of street and shop 
Marie rarely cast a look. 

We need scarcely say that Jean Baptiste Watt went on 
looking,—so long, at least, as Fanny would give him an oppor¬ 
tunity, which was but seldom, the young girl being of a coy 
nature, willing enough to tantalize him with a glimpse of her 
young face, half seen amongst green shrubs and slender trees, 
but by no means inclined to afford him a full and convenient 
object for contemplation. Matters might have gone on thus, 
however, for ever so long, but for the unexpected interference 
of Monsieur Noiret. 

Monsieur Noiret was one of Madame la Roche’s oldest 
friends. He was sixty years odd; a dry and withered, but 
stately old gentleman, stronger, more active, and healthier 
than many a younger man. He was a gentleman of the old 
school too; he wore a queue, small-clothes, black silk stock¬ 
ings, and shoes with gold buckles to them. Ills features were 
sharp, yet not without a quiet humour tinged->with sarcasm ; 
his keen brown eyes twinkled beneath his strong grey eye¬ 
brows with mischievous light, and his white teeth gleamed, 
almost too white and sharp, behind his full good-humoured 
mouth. To these particulars we need only add, that Monsieur 
Noiret was a bachelor, that he enjoyed a comfortable income, 
and that several times a year he dined in state with Madame 
la Roche. He had been dining with her on this particular 
day, one of the brightest in June; the meal was over, and was 
followed by the traditional cup of black coffee, which Madame 
la Roche and her guest took in the garden, with Fanny as 
waiter. 

The evening was clear and calm ; not a breath of air 
stirred the roses of the bosquet, now in full bloom, and to 
whose hue Monsieur Noiret, more courteously than veraciously, 
compared Fanny’s cheek. 

“ Yes, the child is not amiss,” said Madame la Roche, 
looking kindly at her favourite. “ She grows, too, does she 
not, Monsieur Noiret ? ” 

“ Like a lily,” said Monsieur Noiret, smiling his fullest 
smile; “ straight, fair, and modest, but with more than a lily’s 
power to blush.” 

Fanny, w T ith whom Monsieur Noiret was no favourite, 
looked disdainful, as much as to imply that she did not blush 
on his account. 

“ And Fanny has admirers, I perceive,” continued Mon- 


SEVEN YE AES. 


15 


sieur Noiret, leaning back in his chair and glancing carelessly 
at the opposite shop. “ That tall yellow-haired upholsterer 
has a decided admiration for Fanny.” 

“ That young man’s behaviour is getting indecorous,” 
loftily said Madame la Foche; “I really must interfere.” 

Monsieur Noiret whistled. 

“ An old offender, I see,” he shrewdly remarked. u Oh, 
Fanny, Fanny ! ” 

“ Fanny has nothing to do with it, Monsieur Noiret; do - 
advise me.” 

Monsieur Noiret waved his hand with a deprecatory ges¬ 
ture, that implied, “ I cannot; excuse me ; ” and with a covert 
look at Fanny that said, “ not in her presence, if you please.” 

Madame la Foche took the hint, and gently said to the 
young girl: “ You may take these things away, my dear.” 

Fanny, nothing loth, took up the tray and entered the 
house. 

“ My dear Monsieur Noiret, what shall I do ? ” piteously 
exclaimed Madame la Foche ; “ I had some thoughts of alight¬ 
ing from my carriage at this young man’s door, and seriously 
requesting him not to look up in that strange way; but on re¬ 
flection it seems to me you cannot quarrel with people for look¬ 
ing, can you, Monsieur Noiret ? ” 

“ Certainly not,—especially for looking at youth and 
beauty,—else I should be in a sad plight myself,” added Mon¬ 
sieur Noiret, “ having always had a strong bent that way. 
But, my dear Madame, I thought Mademoiselle Fanny be¬ 
came very rosy when I spoke of this yellow-haired young man, 
who since her departure looks most blank and melancholy. 
Do you suppose she takes any interest in him ? ” 

“ Oh dear, no ! ” exclaimed Madame la Foche, rather 
stiffly. 

“ Those things have been,” smiled Monsieur Noiret, as if 
he just then remembered something of the kind within his own 
experience; “ but whatever may be the feelings of Mademoi¬ 
selle Fanny,” lie added, “ I take it for granted that her ad¬ 
mirer gets little encouragement, else he would not feed so hun¬ 
grily on mere looks.” 

“ But what am I to do ? ” sighed Madame la Foche ; “ I 
do not want to keep poor Fanny out of the garden, and it is 
not decorous that she should be looked at in that strange 
way.” 

“ It is most indecorous,” said Monsieur Noiret. u Well, 
my dear Madame, I see but one thing to do. To send for that 


16 


SEVEN YE AES. 


young man on some upholstery concern, and drop him a gen¬ 
tle hint.” 

Madame la Roche eagerly grasped at the suggestion. 

“ Of course, of course,” she said ; “ I want some new gar¬ 
den chairs. What is it, Marie ? ” she added, addressing the 
owner of the Norman cap who then appeared on the threshold 
of the glass-door leading from the house to the garden. 
“ Marie,” she added, without waiting for an answer, “ will you 
just step down and tell Monsieur Watt that I should like to 
speak to him on business ? If he can come at once he will 
very much oblige me.” 

Marie was not a submissive servant. She had both a way 
and a will of her own, but the presence of Monsieur Noiret 
rendered her docile for once ; and though she went away mut¬ 
tering to herself about evening dews and damps, and people 
who never knew that they were getting old, she obliged her 
mistress, which was the chief thing. Her stout figure and for¬ 
midable cap were soon seen at the upholsterer’s door by Mon¬ 
sieur Noiret; the former firmly planted on the pavement, the 
latter nodding imperatively at Jean Baptiste Watt, who, yield¬ 
ing to its summons, put by the evening pipe he was enjoying, 
and stepped across the street to comply with Madame la 
Roche’s request. Marie slowly brought up the rear, as if to 
prevent the possibility of escape. 

“ Is he coming ? ” asked Madame la Roche, who was 
watching Monsieur Noiret’s face. 

•'* He is coming,” emphatically replied Monsieur Noiret. 

Even as he spoke Jean Baptiste Watt appeared at the en¬ 
trance of the garden, and slowly approached the spot where 
Madame la Roche was sitting. The young upholsterer was 
tall, broad-shouldered, and strong. He might be twenty-three 
or more; he certainly looked older. He had a calm, open, 
manly face, serene blue eyes, with a shrewd twinkle in them, 
and firm silent lips that told of a tenacious purpose and strong 
will. His regular features entitled him to the epithet of 
good-looking, though a certain want of vivacity and imagina¬ 
tion in them denied him all claim to the meaning of the com¬ 
prehensive and wonderful word of “ handsome.” He was a 
Fleming, as his name indicated, but he wore the dress of a 
Parisian working man; the grey blouse and trousers, and a 
cloth casquette, which he quietly doffed as he approached 
Madame la Roche. 

This lady was favourably impressed by his appearance, 
and looked at him with a pleased and puzzled expression. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


17 


“ Madame wishes to speak to me,” he said. 

11 Yes,” hesitatingly replied Madame La Roche. “Yes; 
I think I should like some garden chairs.” 

“ I am an upholsterer,” said the young man. “ I can pro¬ 
cure you garden chairs, hut I do not make them.” 

His voice and manner were both phlegmatic and cold. 

“ I see, I understand,” said Madame La Roche, and, not 
knowing how to get on, she gave Monsieur Noiret an appeal¬ 
ing look. He smiled compassionately, gently threw himself 
back in his chair, and thus took the matter in hand. 

“ Monsieur Watt, it is not merely garden chairs Madame 
la Roche requires, but an awning to protect her from the sun 
first of all, and also to screen her from indiscreet looks that 
are apt to find their way to this garden. I believe an awning 
of stout cloth, say striped red and white, scolloped at the edge, 
and held by strong poles, will answer her purpose very well. 
Rut perhaps you do not make awnings, Monsieur Watt ? ” 

Monsieur Watt did not answer. lie looked amazed 
and confounded at the prospect Monsieur Noiret so cruelly 
held out. No doubt a visionary awning, striped red and 
white, and artistically scolloped, the work of his own hands 
too, already stretched before his mind’s eye along the ridge 
of wall above which he had so often seen the graceful form of 
Fanny lightly moving; but awakening as from a dream, he 
said with a strong effort: 

“ I can make an awning for Madame.” And taking out 
his metre measure, he began methodically calculating the 
height and breadth of the proposed awning. Monsieur Noiret 
watched and enjoyed his proceedings, but Madame la Roche, 
who had ever been more remarkable for kindness of heart than 
for logic or consistency, exclaimed compassionately: 

“ Mon l)ieu, Monsieur Watt! I do not care about that 
awning; if you will only not look up here so much as to get 
Fanny noticed in the neighbourhood, we will not put it up at 
all. But, you see, you are very tall, and so your eyes natu¬ 
rally look up, and people might misconstrue, Monsieur Watt.” 

Monsieur AYatt, fairly taken by surprise, reddened like a 
boy on hearing this speech ; but soon rallying he said coolly : 

u I will put the awning, or not, at Madame’s pleasure; I 
am an upholsterer, and it is my business to comply with the 
orders of customers ; but as to not looking,” he added with 
an emphatic smack of his lips, “ Jean Baptiste AYatt uses the 
eyes which the Almighty gave him, and asks no one’s leave as 
to how and when he is to look.” 


18 


SEVEN TEARS. 


This defiant speech, which was uttered with a full look at 
Monsieur Noiret, amused that gentleman exceedingly, hut 
completely disconcerted Madame la Roche. 

“ What an obstinate young man,” she murmured. “ Well, 
well, put up the awning, Monsieur Matt. How much will it 
cost ? ” 

“Two hundred and twenty-five francs.” 

“ So much! ” exclaimed Madame La Roche, opening her 
eyes; “ can you make it no cheaper ? ” 

“ Not a sou.” 

“ Well, well, never mind,” said the easy lady, “ put it up 
ail the same.” 

An expression of conflicting emotions appeared on the 
young man’s face. He hesitated, stammered, coughed, and at 
length spoke to the following purport : 

“ I am new in business, and naturally anxious to secure 
customers. Still, as I believe Madame is putting up that awn- 
> ing chiefly on my account, I think that Madame will spare 
some expense by putting up a wooden trellis, covered with 
creeping plants. It will cost less, look prettier, and answer 
the purpose better than any awning.” 

“ I shall like it a great deal better,” cried Madame la 
Roche. “ How much will it cost, Monsieur Watt ? ” 

“ A gardener will tell Madame best,” answered the young 
man civilly 7 -, but coldly. “ I have the honour to bid Madame 
a good evening.” 

And, without casting a look at Monsieur Noiret, he re 
sumed his casquette, left the garden, and was once more seen 
standing on his door-step leisurely smoking, and all before 
Madame la Roche had recovered from the surprise into which 
his bluntness, honesty, and coolness had thrown her. 

a What an extraordinary young man,” she exclaimed at 
length; “ very stubborn though, and very tiresome, I suspect.” 

“ I wonder what Mademoiselle Fanny will say to all this ? ” 
put in Monsieur Noiret. 

“ She shall know nothing,” said Madame la Roche; “ she 
would fall in love directly, and she is too young. But that 
young man must not lose by his disinterestedness; I shall 
work you a chair, Monsieur Noiret, and he shall make it up.” 

“Then pray do not tell him so,” said Monsieur Noiret 
rising, “ or he will certainly stuff the seat with pins, and put 
an odd nail or two in the back ? ” 

“ What an extraordinary fancy ! ” exclaimed Madame la 
Roche ; “ you do not think he could be so wicked ? ” 


19 


SEVEN YEARS. 

“ Humph ! it was I suggested the awning. And he looks 
desperately in love.” 

Madame la Roche granted the force of the argument, and 
gently thanked Heaven that she had never been in love. 
Which remark Monsieur Noiret heard with the compassion it 
merited. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Madame la Roche was by far too discreet to drop a word 
to Fanny of what had passed. 

“ No, Marie,” she said to her maid, as the latter helped her 
to undress that evening, “ no, Fanny is a good girl, hut if she 
were to know the state that poor young man is in, it might, 
have some effect upon her. 1 never was in love, thank Heaven, 
and married Monsieur la Roche out of duty to my dear 
mother, who said he would make a good husband; but the 
truth is, Marie, I was once very near being in love with a 
linen-draper, just because my nurse, like a foolish thing as she 
was, said that young man looked bewitched whenever I entered 
the shop. I confess I was beginning to take a liking to going 
into that shop, when I luckily married Monsieur la Roche, 
and an end was put to all that nonsense.” 

We are sorry to say that Marie did not give this sensible 
speech the respectful hearing it certainly deserved. She was very 
much provoked with every one : with her mistress for talking 
of getting a trellis put up; with Jean Baptiste Watt for look¬ 
ing at Fanny; and with Fanny for being looked at. Marie 
liked the garden as it was; she liked to see and be seen; to 
lean with arms folded above the wall that overlooked the 
street, and exchange shrill contests with any passing enemy 
below. The trellis threatened to be the destroyer of all her 
pleasures and habits, and Marie was resolved that it should 
not be put up. For this it was necessary to bring matters to 
a crisis, and she saw no better means of accomplishing her 
object than to attack Fanny; not by coarse reproaches or 
violent scolding,—Marie loved the youDg girl too much to use 
either, and, to say the truth, she was also too much in fear of 
this pert little tyrant, who managed to rule the whole house,— 
but by those delicate arts which are omnipotent all the world 
over, and which Fanny in particular was too young and inex¬ 
perienced to compete with. 

After seeing her mistress safe in bed, Marie, who never 
took long to mature her plans, proceeded straightway to the 


20 


SEVEN YEARS. 


room where Fanny slept, and where she found the young girl 
working busily by the light of a solitary candle. It was a 
small, neat room, which Madame la ltoche had taken a pecu¬ 
liar pleasure in decorating, and which many a wealthier girl 
than Fanny might have envied her, so prettily and coquet- 
tishly was it furnished. 

“ My darling,” said Marie, entering, “ why will you spoil 
your eyes with that bad light ? ” 

“ Spoil my eyes ! ” saucily said Fanny, “ nothing spoils 
them.” 

“ I dare say not—I dare say not,” sighed Marie, sinking 
down on a chair; “ that poor Jean Baptiste Watt knows 
something about it. Well, well. I do not pity him; that 
screen will only serve him right.” 

“ Screen, what screen ? ” asked Fanny. 

“ Dear me, child, do you not know r ? Did you not see him 
in the garden this evening ? Were you not present when he 
had that lono; talk with Madame ? ” 

Fanny did not know what Marie meant. She had seen no 
one ; she had heard nothing. 

“ Ah, to be sure, of course not! ” exclaimed Marie, sud¬ 
denly remembering; “ well, you know, child, that big, fat, 
stupid-looking Fleming opposite, the upholsterer, who always 
does so stare at you.” 

“1 have never looked at him,” sharply interrupted Fanny, 
“ and therefore he may be fat, stupid, and all you like, for all 
I know.” 

“Of course, of course,” soothingly said Marie; “well, 
child, Madame and Monsieur Noiret sent for him.” 

“ I do not see what Monsieur Noiret had to do with it,’’ 
again interrupted Fanny, who looked red and vexed. 

“ Nothing, certainly,” approvingly said Marie; “ but it 
seems they sent for him, and scolded him about his looking, 
and all that.” 

“ Marie, what do you mean by all that?” asked Fanny, 
looking solemn. “ Do you mean to say that I have ever 
taken the least notice of that young man,— that I should know 
him in the street ?” 

“ My darling, no one dreams of blaming you,—no one in¬ 
deed ; the young man is nothing in this; the screen is all to 
my seeming.” 

“ What screen ? ” 

“ Ah ! there it is, what screen, indeed ! It seems neither 
threats nor entreaties would make him promise not to look at 


SEVEN YEARS. 


21 


you in the garden, so Monsieur Noiret said a screen—a 
wooden trellis with a creeping vine—was the only cure, and a 
screen there is to be all round the garden, and we are to be 
locked up like the Grand Turk’s wives.” 

“ Madame la Roche may put up the screen of course,” 
said Fanny, looking very angry and very dignified, “ but once 
it is up I shall not put my foot in the garden.” 

“ Then all the blame will be thrown upon me,” ejaculated 
Marie, “ for, to say the truth, child, I was not to have told 
you. Nothing would convince Madame but that if you once 
knew about this young fellow, you would fall in love with him.” 

“ I! ” exclaimed Fanny. 

“ Do not mind it, child, it is all Charlotte’s doing, I have 
. no doubt.” 

“ I do not care who has done it,” cried Fanny, exasperat¬ 
ed, “ but this I know, that if the screen is put up, I shall not 
put my foot in the garden again.” 

“ Stick to that, dear,” said Marie shrewdly, “ stick to 
that, and we shall have no screen, you may rely upon it.” 

Every one knows the potent effect of contradiction, 
especially in the discreet season of youth. As much through 
shyness as through prudence, Fanny had shunned the perti¬ 
nacious looks of Jean Baptiste Watt, but now the spirits of 
curiosity and of disobedience were both roused, and Fanny 
got up at least half an hour earlier than usual the next morn¬ 
ing, to see what this fat, stupid, big Fleming was really like. 
She went into the garden, she fed the birds in the aviary, and 
the sparrows on the grass; she tied up drooping flowers, and 
spent an hour in these tasks, and did not once see the face of 
Jean Baptiste Watt. He sat in his shop stuffing a sofa ; but 
though he might have seen her, and though he certainly must 
have heard her, for she sang to herself, he never raised his 
head once. 

“ He is a Fleming, and he is stupid,” thought Fanny, all 
the more vexed that she was conscious of having watched for 
an admiration she had disdained hitherto. She resolved not 
to give him another thought. Yet at twelve she was in the 
garden again, and again she saw Baptiste working hard, and 
never raising his look towards Madame la Roche’s premises. 
“They have frightened him,” thought Fanny, with something 
like contempt. And she resolved to see if he could abstain 
from looking one whole day. Madame la Roche was out in 
her carriage, making her round of calls ; Charlotte and Marie 
were busy within; the June evening was balmy and mild. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


22 

Fanny took out her work to the garden, and, seating herself 
near the wall, she sewed busily, now and then clipping off, with 
her scissors, a withered leaf from a neighbouring shrub, or 
casting a careless look below. Women and girls were filling 
their pails at a fountain, children were playing in the middle 
of the street, and Jean Baptiste Watt stood on the threshold 
of his door leaning against the jamb, with sadly folded arms, 
smoking a huge pipe with slow relish, and looking at Fanny 
with all his might. 

The young girl had given him up, and indeed had forgotten 
him, when, casting her eyes towards his shop, she made the 
discovery. An expression of great severity found its way to 
Fanny’s face. She rose slowly, folded up her work, took in 
her chair, and disappeared for the evening. Indeed, Fanny 
was, or fancied herself, very angry, and straightway went to 
Marie, to whom she told what had happened, adding some try¬ 
ing comments on the personal appearance as well as on the 
behaviour of her admirer, and concluding with the declaration 
that the sooner the screen was put up the better. 

“ Well, perhaps it is,” pensively ejaculated Marie, “ for 
there is no knowing but you might be tempted to give the 
young fellow a look now and then.” 

“ I! ” interrupted Fanny. 

“ Yes, my dear, just as you might look at the door, or at a 
horse and car in the street; but men are so dreadfully conceited 
that this one would never fancy he is no more than a door or 
a horse in your sight, and of course you cannot tell him so. 
Yes, the trellis is certainly best, unless, indeed, he should fancy 
you are peeping at him through it.” 

“ Peeping, and at him ! ” indignantly exclaimed Fanny. 

“Yes, dear, all conceit, of course; but still not unlikely. 
Men are so. The best of them would not feel a bit surprised 
at being told, Monsieur, the queen’s daughter is dying for 
you.” 

Fanny was confounded: to be suspected of peeping at a 
Monsieur Watt through a trellis was more than pride could 
tolerate, and Marie followed up her advantage with so much 
skill, that the young girl once more declared she would not 
put her foot in the garden if once the screen were put up. She 
said so not merely to Marie, but to Madame la lioche herself, 
when that lady remotely alluded to the subject, and spoke of 
the heat of the sun, and the staring of the neighbours. 

“ I shall be very glad, of course, to be rid of the staring of 
that impertinent upholsterer,” said Fanny, speaking very fast, 


23 


SEVEN YEARS. 

“ but for all that, once the screen is up, I shall not enter the 
garden.” 

“ My dear ! ” gravely exclaimed Madame la Roche. 

u I know he would think I am peeping at him from behind 
it,” pursued Fanny, looking hot and vexed. 

Madame la Roche was very much perplexed. She hesi¬ 
tated : it was weak to yield to a child like Fanny; it was com¬ 
mitting her authority; but then it was so easy. 

“ I really do not like to hurt that young man’s feelings,” 
she apologetically said to Monsieur Noiret; “ on reflection, too, 
I think it would make him conceited. Then it would certainly 
spoil our garden, and Marie thinks it would make people take 
more notice than if we put up nothing at all; and as Fanny 
does not care about the young man’s looking—we will leave 
matters as they are.” 

Monsieur Noiret smiled politely, and thus Marie won the 
day, and Jean Baptiste Watt was allowed to use his eyes. 


CHAPTER V. 

From that day forward Fanny took a decided, though dis¬ 
creet, liking to the little garden. No one could accuse her of 
going there for the mere purpose of idling aw r ay an hour, for 
she never went without her work, and she sat in the bosquet 
of roses most decorously sewing. No one could say, either, 
that she wished Jean Baptiste Watt to look at her, for the 
spot she chose to sit in was by no means within range of his 
eyesight; in short, it was difficult to say that Fanny went to 
the garden for any other reason than that she liked it, and that 
it was pleasant, in the freshness of summer mornings and the 
cool of summer evenings, to sit and sew there; to hear the 
birds sing, to see the jet of sparkling water rise in mist and 
spray, and fall back in its stone basin ; to enjoy the verdure of 
grass and trees, and, instead of a room ceiling, to feel above 
her head the clear blue Paris sky. 

Madame la Roche was of too easy and confiding a temper 
to dream of suspecting Fanny; Charlotte was too busy within 
and too indolent to trouble herself about her god-daughter’s 
doings, and only the busy, vigilant, mistrustful owner of the 
Norman cap was left to keep watch over the young girl. She 
did so ostensibly at first, leaning over the wall and looking 
down defiantly at the upholsterer below ; then, reflecting that 
this was too frank and imprudent a laying of herself open to 




24 


SEVEN YEARS. 


the eneni}', she withdrew like an artful spider to the retreat of 
some young shrubs and trees, behind which she lurked in 
watch of the heedless fly opposite ; of this too she tired in time 
and entered the house, where she stood behind curtains, or 
ascended the staircase and took her post at landing windows, 
like a warder in his turret ‘ all to no purpose: Marie became 
convinced of a truth, which it had not taken Fanny tw r o days to 
ascertain : Jean Baptiste Watt looked up no more. Pride, 
sense, both perhaps, had won that victory over passion : the 
young Fleming had not waited for the threatened screen to be 
put up ; he had forestalled it by the effort of will, and thus 
won one of the greatest triumphs he could w T ell win. 

“ The impertinent conceited fellow ! ” exclaimed Marie; 
“ does he mean anything by it ? ” 

“What should he mean?’ impatiently replied Fanny, 
“ who wants him to look ? ” 

“ He is sly,” said Marie, “ he is sly, child ; I warrant, for 
all his demureness, that many a corner of his eye finds its w r ay 
up here. ” 

Fanny did not reply, but hung her head over her work and 
sewed fast. 

There is no knowing how long matters might have gone 
on so. Fanny might have worked in the garden the whole 
summer long, and Baptiste might have stuffed sofas and chairs 
in his shop, and looked up from the corner of his eye, as Marie 
said, but for an event which no one could possibly have fore¬ 
seen, and which brought matters to a crisis. 

Fanny rose one morning in her usual health. She went 
out to the garden, as her wont was when she spent the day 
at home, and she sat and sewed there. Towards noon her 
head ached; by evening she felt feverish; in the night she 
awoke seriously ill. A doctor was sent for by dawn; he de¬ 
clared that Fanny had a fever of the w r orst kind, and pronoun¬ 
ced her life in danger. How did the news reach Baptiste 
Watt ? Perhaps he missed Fanny from the garden and made 
inquiries ? Certain it is, that on the evening of the third day 
of Fanny’s illness, Jean Baptiste Watt, pale and haggard¬ 
looking, rang the bell at Madame la Roche’s door, and asked 
to speak to the mistress of the house. 

It was Marie who opened. Speedy and sharp came her 
answer. 

“ You cannot see Madame.” 

And she was shutting the door in his face, when Baptiste 
quickly interposed his hand and prevented her purpose. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


25 


t£ I must see her,” he said coolly; “ and I will,” lie added, 
entering the ante-room. 

“ You will ? ” said Marie, amazed at his audacity. 

Baptiste shut the door, sat down on the first chair at hand, 
put his hat on the floor between his legs, and said with an in¬ 
crease of phlegm : 

“ I shall not stir from this place till I have seen Madame 
la Itoche.” 

“ And though you should stay here till morning, you shall 
not see her,” indignantly cried Marie. 

There is something exquisitely-provoking in the stolidity of 
big people. Conscious of his size, strength, and immoveable 
purpose, Baptiste Watt did not deign to stir or speak. His 
ideas were naturally few, and he had now brought all his en¬ 
ergies to bear on one particular idea,—that it was requisite he 
should see Madame la Itoche in order to know the truth about 
Fanny ; more he was not equal to. But this he was so firmly 
resolved upon, that nothing and no one could have made him 
move from where he now was. Marie threatened, scolded, and 
waxed red, and finally left him there, and went to find Char¬ 
lotte, who was ironing in the kitchen. 

“ Charlotte ! ” she exclaimed, “ do exert yourself for once, 
and go to that Fleming out there ; I cannot make him move 
from the ante-room, and I am determined he shall not see 
Madame.” 

“It is very strange that you should have let him in,” mis¬ 
trustfully replied Charlotte, who saw a trap in this speech. 
u I always said so to Monica. 1 Never let a man in, my dear, 
unless you wish him to stay. Ah, well, it is hard to have but 
one child, and to have her whipped off to America for you, by 
a good-for-nothing fellow, who gave himself out as earning five 
francs ten a-day, and who never did make three, Monica,’ I 
said.” 

“ I never heard anything like it,” interrupted Marie, 
stamping her right foot. “ I ask you to help me to turn out a 
man, and you talk of Monica’s husband to me.” 

“ I know you have been wanting this curling iron all day,” 
replied Charlotte ; “ but if you think to make me leave it and 
my place here by your stories of men and all that, you are very 
much mistaken. I scorn such arts, thank Heaven.” 

“ The woman is mad,” charitably exclaimed Marie. “ As 
to that young giant, we shall see what the broomstick will do, 
and whether he will brazen ilxat out.” 

And there is no knowing to what extremities Marie, who had 
2 


26 


SEVEN YEARS. 


a violent temper, might have proceeded, if Madame la Roche 
had not happened to cross the ante-room and to see Baptiste 
sitting there. She gave v him an astonished look, which, rising 
at her approach, he answered with great calmness. 

“ I know Madame has every right to be surprised at seeing 
me here,” he said, “ but I could live no longer in that state of 
suspense. I know Madame is good, and that she will tell me 
the truth about Mademoiselle Fanny. Is she really so very ill 
as the people say ? ” 

The mild blue eyes of Madame la Roche fell with gentle 
compassion on the worn, unhappy face of the speaker. 

“ Poor young fellow ! ” she said half to herself; “ why yes,” 
she added aloud, “ yes, our poor little darling is very ill. We 
are in great trouble about her, Monsieur Watt,—very great 
trouble; I really do not know what I shall do if we should 
lose the dear child,” added Madame la Roche, bursting into 
tears, “ so good, so affectionate as she has always been. The 
doctor says she is very ill, and—dear me, Monsieur Watt, I 
hope you are not going to faint! ” added Madame la Roche, 
startled at the young man’s appearance. 

He had turned white, then yellow; his eyes stared vacantly 
at the wall before him; his heavy hand grasped the back of 
the chair on which he had been sitting, and the whole of his 
strong frame shook like an undermined column. Madame la 
Roche stepped over to him, bewildered and frightened, ahd 
fancied that she was propping him, because she pushed her lit¬ 
tle upraised hands against his strong shoulders. 

“ Good heavens ! ” exclaimed Marie, dropping the broom¬ 
stick as she entered, “ that elephant is in Madame’s arms.” 

u Get me some vinegar, Marie,” agitatedly exclaimed 
Madame la Roche, “ the poor child is fainting ! ” 

u The poor child ! ” cried Marie. 

“ Get me some vinegar, I say,” again exclaimed her mis¬ 
tress. “ Ho you want him to drop ? ” 

“ No, for it would not be easy to pick him up again,” said 
Marie ; “ let Madame help me to put him on the chair, and 
then we shall see about the vinegar.” 

In a second it was done. Baptiste sat on the chair sup¬ 
ported by Madame la Roche, whilst Marie zealously rubbed 
his nose with vinegar. 

“ Poor child, poor child,” said Madame la Roche, with 
tears in her eyes. 

“ If Madame calls that man a child ”—said Marie. 

“ Yes, Marie, I do. He is but a big child, a poor foolish 


SEVEN YE AES. 


27 


boy with a boyish heart. Let him alone. Do you want to 
take his skin off with that vinegar ? Let him alone, I say, he 
is coming round.” 

Baptiste was coming round indeed, for with returning con¬ 
sciousness he uttered a deep groan, stared at Madame la 
Roche and Marie, and, rising, he opened the door and left 
them both without uttering a word. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“Was there ever such an unmannered bear?” exclaimed 
Marie, wroth and amazed at such extraordinary behaviour. 

“ Let him alone, poor boy,” compassionately exclaimed 
Madame la Roche, “ let him alone; he takes away a sore heart 
with him; and I do not like your severity, Marie; indeed I do 
not. Besides, what brought you here ? you should be with 
Fanny. Is she in a condition to be left alone after what the 
doctor has said ? ” 

“ The doctor is an impostor,” replied Marie. “ He pre¬ 
tends that Fanny is ill, just because he wants to be made 
much of if she recovers. I know him. Why, he made the 
poor child ill with his last medicine; and I shall tell him so,” 
added Marie, walking away with the cool self-possession of one 
long used to rule. 

“ They are too much for me, that is the truth,” sighed 
Madame la Roche ; “ I sometimes wish I had not such attach¬ 
ed servants, and could manage matters a little my own way; 
but I suppose it is no use now.” 

With this despondent conclusion Madame la Roche would 
probably have remained satisfied this time, as she had been 
satisfied many a time before, if she had not received a further 
and more irritating instance of that domestic rebellion, in the 
centre of which she lived. She had scarcely left the ante¬ 
room, when an impatient ring at the door announced the ar¬ 
rival of Docteur Leroy, the most impatient of men. Marie, 
mindful that she had just been sent to Fanny’s room, would not 
stir thence; Charlotte, suspecting a trap in the ring, remained 
at her ironing; the cook had some all-important mess on the 
fire, and did not stir; in short, every one’s business proved to 
be no one’s business, and, as a third furious ring was heard, 
Madame la Roche herself went and admitted the doctor, who 
bounced in red as a turkey-cock, and scarcely calmed down 
on seeing the mistress of the house. 


28 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ Madame,” lie began, “your servants—” 

“ I have none, Monsieur Leroy,” interrupted Madame la 
Roche. “I have masters, but no servants.” 

“ Discharge them,” said Docteur Leroy, walking on to 
Fanny’s room,—“ discharge them, Madame.” 

Fanny, who was sleeping, awoke as he entered. The doc¬ 
tor felt her pulse, and, with a satisfied look, declared the fever 
had abated considerably. 

“ Indeed,” he added, turning to Madame la Roche, who 
had followed him in, “ indeed, Madame, I think we may pro¬ 
nounce it all but gone : the effect, you see, of that last excellent 
potion, which has been faithfully administered, as I perceive 
from that empty phial. I believe I predicted the result.” 

“Yes, I remember,” faltered Madame la Roche; “I am 
so glad, Docteur, I am so glad, and so much indebted to you.” 

“ Science, Madame,” modestly replied Docteur Leroy, 
“ science, no more.” 

Marie, who had heard them both with her arms folded 
across her ample person, and her head and its lofty accom¬ 
paniment gently nodding time to their words, now opened her 
lips, and slowly and deliberately uttered the ominous sen¬ 
tence : 

“ I hate imposition.” 

Docteur Leroy was a fiery and impatient man, but he was 
also a lofty man, and it was with the strongest assumption 
of loftiness that, looking at Madame la Roche, he exclaimed: 

“ Madame ! ” 

Rut Madame la Roche only looked feeble and piteous. 

“ I say I hate imposition,” reiterated Marie; “ and I say 
that Fanny has had no other illness than that which some 
abominable medicine has given her. I say too, sir, that the 
last excellent potion you ordered is here,” she added, produc¬ 
ing a basin in which she had irreverently thrown it, “ and Fanny 
is well, precisely because she did not take it.” 

The Docteur’s temper here got the better of his dignity. 

“ Woman ! ” he exclaimed, “ do you know that I can get 
you turned away for this ? Do you know it, I say ? ” 

The daring nature of this speech completely took away 
Marie’s breath. 

“ G et me turned away! ” she screamed at length with a 
derisive laugh, “ get me turned away !—ha ! ha! ” 

Docteur Leroy became very red. 

“ Madame,” he said, turning to Madame la Ptoche, “ I 
cannot attend this young girl again until you command your 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


29 


servants. What the consequences to my patient may he I 
know not. I wash my hands of the whole affair.” 

So saying he took his hat and loftily walked out. 

“ Marie, what have you done ? ” said Madame la Roche, 
sinking down on a chair; u how shall we manage with poor 
dear Fanny ? ” 

“ If Madame will only look at poor dear Fanny,” replied 
Marie, “ she will sec how much the little chit is to be pitied ! ” 

Madame la Roche was surprised, there is no denying it; 
Fanny was laughing, not loud, indeed, for she was too weak, 
but with such good will that tears were running down her 
cheeks. 

“ The child was never ill,” triumphantly resumed Marie, 
11 and so I would have told that young elephant, if I had 
known what he was so mad about; it would have been better 
than all the vinegar.” 

Madame la Roche thought that Fanny either did not hear, 
or, hearing it, did not understand this speech, so little impres¬ 
sion did it seem to produce upon her, so pale and calm did 
she look as it was uttered; but in the course of the day Mad¬ 
ame la Roche was undeceived. 

Marie had left the room, and the young girl was alone 
with her protectress. She was certainly, and spite Docteur 
Leroy’s ominous adieu, getting much better,—so much better, 
that Madame la Roche began to rally round to Marie’s opinion, 
and to think that Fanny had never been very ill. She was 
also coming round to the belief, which was never long shaken 
in her mind, that Marie was a wonderful woman, and wiser 
than Docteur Leroy or any one else besides, when a low voice 
roused her by the following remark : 

“ Dear Madame, who was it Marie called a young ele¬ 
phant ? ” 

Madame la Roche glanced down at Fanny’s face. It 
looked utterly quiet and unconscious,- and the good lady 
searched for an ambiguous answer, but found none better than 
the very plain one : 

“ My dear, it was Monsieur Watt.” 

Fanny’s brown eyes opened wide,—no doubt with surprise. 

“ Monsieur Watt! what Monsieur Watt ? ” 

“ Our neighbour the upholsterer, my dear.” 

“ How odd ! what did lie come for, Madame ? ” 

“ My dear, do you not know ? ” rather gravely asked Mad¬ 
ame la Roche, who feared that Fanny was indulging in a little 
duplicity. 


30 


SEVEN YEARS. 


Fanny coloured and pouted. Know! why should she 
know ? Monsieur Watt might be come for business. How 
could she tell ? 

“ Well, perhaps you cannot,” replied good-natured Mad¬ 
ame la Roche ; “ but the truth is, he came to ask after you.” 

u What ailed him, then ? What did Marie mean by vine¬ 
gar?” asked Fanny. 

Here again the truth came to Madame la Roche’s lips. 

“ My dear, he was anxious about you, and I imprudently 
told him you were, as I thought, in some danger; so the poor 
young fellow nearly fainted.” 

“ Very foolish of him,” pettishly said Fanny; “ I wish he 
would not.” 

“ My dear, there is no harm in it.” 

“ I wish he would not,” persisted Fanny, 11 he is tiresome.” 

“ He will not come any more,” said Madame la Roche. 
“ I shall let him know you are well again, and he will stay 
away.” 

“ I hope he will, ” said Fanny. 

Her hope was fulfilled. Baptiste, with whom kind Mad¬ 
ame la Roche had a personal and private communication on 
the subject, kept aloof, and Fanny recovered rapidly and un¬ 
disturbed. 

But who can answer for the caprices and the wayward 
turnings of a girl’s heart, especially when that girl is sixteen, 
and has been spoiled and petted from her infancy upwards ? 

Fanny’s temper did not improve with her returning health. 
She was peevish, fretful, impatient. It was very plain some¬ 
thing ailed her. 

“ I cannot imagine what is the matter with the child,” pri¬ 
vately said Madame la Roche to her two confidential advisers, 
Charlotte and Marie; u nothing pleases her. She used not to 
be so.” 

“ Girls never know what they wish for,” replied Charlotte, 
“ nor yet what is good for them. I had a cousin, who was as 
happy as the day was long, but who was never quiet till she 
ran away with a married man.” 

Charlotte’s habit of thus getting out of present matters 
into some past history was a great source of annoyance to Ma¬ 
rie’s fiery temper, and a frequent cause of quarrel between her 
and Fanny’s god-mother. 

“ And what has the running away of your foolish cousin 
with a married man to do with Fanny being dull ? ” she asked. 
“ Where is the married man in this, if you please ? ” 


SEYEN' TEAKS. 


31 


il There may be one yet,” was Charlotte’s composed reply. 

Marie gave her a withering look, but scorning to be drawn 
on dangerous ground, where Charlotte’s irritating coolness 
and thorough skill ever gave her every advantage, she broke 
rather than entered on the real matter at issue, by saying 
hotly: 

u And I say Fanny is in love with that young elephant 
opposite.” 

“ Oh, no 1 ” exclaimed candid Madame la Roche. “ I am 
sure she does not like him at all.” 

Marie gave her mistress a look of infinite pity, and asked 
dryly : 

“ Shall I find out whether she does ? ” 

■“ I object to that,” quietly said Charlotte; “ to find out 
would be to make the ehild fall in love directly, which is by 
no means to be desired. Unless I know more of that young 
man, I shall allow nothing of the kind. I have had enough 
of Monica’s unlucky marriage. My daughter has been whip¬ 
ped off to America. I will not have my god-daughter whip¬ 
ped off to Flanders, Belgium, Holland, or such places.” 

This broke up the conference, and poor Madame la Roche 
remained perplexed between her two advisers, whose last 
thought seemed to be to give her anything like real advice; 
but this opposition of Charlotte’s produced upon Marie the 
effect opposition of any kind invariably brought about. With¬ 
out in the least considering the right or wrong of the matter, 
she did not allow an hour to elapse before she entered the 
shop of Jean Baptiste Watt, and with a gently ironical air 
asked to speak to him in private. 

“ Why not ? ” phlegmatically replied Baptiste, rising from 
his work, and leading Marie into the back parlour, a gloomy 
room, which he rendered more gloomy by closing the door. 
11 Will you sit down? ” he asked, pointing to a chair. 

“ No,” shortly replied Marie. £ ‘ I did not come here to 
sit, but to talk.” Baptiste nodded, as much as to say, “ I am 
listening.” 

“ May I ask,” resumed Marie, looking both shrewd and 
searching, “ may I ask to know, sir, what you meant by com¬ 
ing in the other day, and fainting in our ante-room ? ” 

“ I explained my purpose to Madame la Roche,” he re¬ 
plied eoolly ; “ that is enough.” 

“ Does that mean, sir, that you will say nothing to me ? ” 

u I have nothing to say to you,” said Baptiste. 

“ Very well, sir,” wrathfully replied Marie, “ I might 


32 


SEVEN YEARS. 


have assisted you with Fanny, but mark my words, I shall 
not be your friend in that quarter.” 

Baptiste Watt was never a quick speaker; he now seemed 
to think over his reply; at length it came forth : 

“ I have nothing to do with Mademoiselle Fanny. I have 
never spoken to her. Why do you bring her name in ? ” 

u Why do you stare at her ? ” indignantly asked Marie ; 
u why do you stare at her ? ” 

Baptiste shook his head gloomily. 

“ You mistake,” he said, “ you mistake ; I have not look¬ 
ed at her for weeks. It was an annoyance and a trouble to 
her, I believe, and I have given it up.” 

“ Very well, sir, very well,” angrily replied Marie, “ make 
much of yourself, do. I thank Heaven that I never had any¬ 
thing to do with your sex; that I never would,” added Marie 
with significant emphasis, “ good morning, sir.” 

“ Good morning,” phlegmatically replied Baptiste, and 
opening the parlour door, he saw her out; but Marie had not 
crossed the threshold door before Baptiste was again at his 
work. 

Marie did not boast of her errand or its ill-success, but 
the whole day long she brooded over a scheme of revenge, 
which was destined to be destroyed in its very birth by events 
stronger than her will. 

It so chanced that Fanny was more fantastical than ever 
on that afternoon. Nothing pleased her, though she wished 
for many things; Madame la Eoche, who was alone with her, 
bore all these caprices with the easiest good humour, only 
saying once or twice, “ My dear child, what can ail you ? ” 

To which Fanny replied with an impatient, “ Oh ! nothing- 
ails me.” 

“ But I think something does ail you,” at length rejoined 
Madame la Eoche; “ yes, I really think something does ail 
you.” 

Fanny looked provoked, but did not answer. 

“ I have just received a very unexpected visit, and have had 
a long conversation with my visitor,” pursued the elder lady. 
11 1 thought it would spare you some trouble if I repeated to 
you what passed, without bringing Monsieur Watt himself to 
say it. My dear, you need not colour up so ; it is very nat¬ 
ural ; the young man likes you, and wants to marry you; not 
now, of course,—you are too young, and he is only beginning 
business, and he is a very sensible young man; but it seems 
that was the meaning of his looking up so much; so if you 


SEVEN YEAES. 


33 


like him, we need not put up the screen, which always hung so 
heavy on my mind ; for I felt as if it should have been put up, 
yet I could not gather courage to see to it. And now, my 
dear, all lies with you. Say yes or no.” 

Fanny threw her arms around the neck of Madame la 
Roche. “ Dear Madame,” she said, “ I do not want to say 
yes or no. I am too young, I do not know my own mind.” 

“ My dear, it must be no, then,” said Madame la Roche, 
very gravely. 

11 But I do not want it to be no,” impatiently replied 
Fanny; “he is big and stupid, and a Fleming, but still I like 
him very well. X know he took my illness to heart, and I like 
him. Surely, I need not say that I shall marry him for that.” 

“ My dear, it must be yes or no,” persisted Madame la 
Roche. Upon which Fanny pouted and looked so dismal, 
that the kind-hearted lady rose, left the room, and held a 
solemn council with her two prime ministers. The debate 
was long and stormy. Charlotte, still mindful of the loss of 
Monica, was for not giving this designing Fleming a foot in 
the place; Marie, resentfully remembering her recent repulse, 
vehemently denounced him as an impostor, second only to 
Docteur Leroy. 

Madame la Roche withdrew, deeply perplexed by the un¬ 
usual agreement of two who never agreed; but her perplexity 
did not last long, for scarcely had she retired to her room to 
think over it five minutes, when Charlotte mysteriously en¬ 
tered. 

“ Madame knows how much I like peace and a quiet life,” 
she significantly began, “ and Marie has such a dreadful tem¬ 
per, and flies out so, that one cannot be too careful; I have 
therefore come to tell Madame my real opinion in this matter, 
and it is, that it is best to let the child have her own way ; but, 
of course, Madame will do as she pleases.” 

With this kind permission Charlotte retired, leaving 
Madame la Roche very much inclined to avail herself of the 
leave and advice she had received; but in considerable un¬ 
easiness of mind, considering what Marie would say, should 
she venture to do so. From this second perplexity she was 
relieved by the appearance of Marie, who, luckily unconscious 
of Charlotte’s covert desertion, walked in and roundly said to 
her mistress: 

“ Madame may think what she likes, but it is no use going 
contrary to girls; and since Fanny has set her mind on that 
young elephant, the best thing is not to go contrary to her, 
2 * 


34 


SEVEN YEARS. 


but just let her have her will, and she will get sick of him of 
her own accord.” 

“ There is a great deal of sense in what you say, Marie,” 
replied her mistress; “ but if I thought Fanny was trifling 
with that young man, I would have nothing to do with it, I 
have a feeling for him.” 

Marie gave Madame la Roche a compassionate look, and 
went away with an “ Ah, well!” at the idea of having any 
feeling for anything in masculine shape, that spoke volumes 
touching her opinion of the male sex. But there were mat¬ 
ters on which Madame la Roche could be obstinate, and after 
an interview and a conversation of some length with Jean 
Baptiste Watt, she went back to the room where Fanny sat 
alone, read her a gentle homily on the wickedness of trifling 
with an honest young man; and finally exacting no promises, 
but leaving all to Fanny’s good sense and good feeling, she 
informed her that Baptiste was coming to see her. 

“ I have warned him that you do not pledge yourself,” 
she continued, “ that this is a mere friendly visit; it now lies 
with you not to deceive him, which would be cruel and 
wicked.” 

Fanny did not reply; she was sitting in an arm-chair, her 
head resting on a pillow, her hands folded on her lap; a faint 
blush rose to her pale and wasted cheeks, her lids fell, and her 
lips parted to murmur some inaudible assent. 

“ My dear, we take it for granted,” readily said Madame 
la Roche; “ and I believe here he is.” 

The door opened, and Baptiste, red, confused, and affected, 
spite all his phlegm, entered the room. 

“ Our neighbour, Monsieur Watt, has called to see you, 
my dear,” said Madame la Roche with great dignity ; “ pray 
take a chair, Monsieur Watt.” 

Monsieur Watt, who looked exceedingly uncomfortable, 
nevertheless did as he was bid, and looking at Fanny, seemed 
to ask for something besides the icy nod with which he had 
been welcomed. But, spite the kind efforts of Madame la 
Roche to compel the young girl to talk, it is doubtful whether 
she would have done more than open her lips, but for the un¬ 
expected entrance of Charlotte and Marie. 

Both the prime ministers of Madame la Roche, like other 
prime ministers in this, entertained a secret and scarcely dis¬ 
guised pity for the judgment of their sovereign. To both 
occurred the same doubt concerning the propriety of allowing 
Fanny to meet with Baptiste Watt under no other surveillance 


SEVEN TEARS. 


35 


than that of their simple mistress, and both, accordingly, 
scarcely heard him enter, when they separately proceeded to 
the room where the interview was taking place. On meeting 
they exchanged covert glances, each believing the other 
taken by surprise, and expecting signs of war, waiting for 
which, one took up her position on the left side of Fanny, and 
the other on the right. Madame la Roche looked annoyed, 
and Baptiste confounded; Fanny, understanding the drift of 
this simultaneous vist, and resenting it greatly, resolved on 
rebellion, and, calling up her most gracious looks and smiles, 
began a lively conversation with Baptiste. 

“ I am so much obliged to you for calling, Monsieur Watt,” 
she said; “ you cannot imagine how dull I feel, locked up as 
I am from morning till night. Do give me some news of the 
world : I know nothing.” 

And whilst, charmed and surprised at the change, Baptiste 
was meditating what answer to give her, Fanny, without wait¬ 
ing for his reply, started a new subject of conversation, and 
kept up the burden of the discourse with an ease that showed 
how little she felt the task. When Baptiste rose to go, she 
smiled, held out her hand, and graciously said: “You will 
come again, Monsieur Watt, will you not? ” 

Baptiste looked at Madame la Boche, who smiled and 
sighed as she said: 

“ Of course Monsieur Watt will come again.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

Baptiste came again; and moreover Madame la Boche 
managed matters so cleverly that Marie and Charlotte were 
kept out of the way, and he saw Fanny in her presence, which, 
she was so easy and good-natured, might almost be called 
seeing her alone. Fanny, indeed, was very coy, very high 
and fantastic, but still she was pleasant with it all, and Bap¬ 
tiste was too much smitten not to be charmed with her, how¬ 
ever she might be. 

They thus had two or three meetings, which, that there 
might be no impropriety in it, and that neighbours might make 
no odd conjectures and begin to talk about little Fanny, 
Madame la Boche rendered imperative and business-like, by 
consulting Baptiste on a set of chairs she and Fanny were go¬ 
ing to work,—a vast undertaking, in which it might be con¬ 
fidently predicted that Madame la Boche would act the part 


36 


SEVEN YEAES. 


of sleeping partner, and Fanny do tlie real business of the 
firm. Baptiste had a good deal to say on this important 
matter. He had to help the two ladies to choose patterns ; 
he had next to submit to their approbation the designs of the 
chairs, to consult them on gimp, fringe, gilt nails, &c., and he 
might have come to and fro a dozen times with ease, if, with 
all her easy good-nature, Madame la Boche had not brought 
matters to a crisis. 

Fanny was now well, though still too weak to resume her 
work; her kind friends at least thought so, and kept her at 
home. Madame la Boche was of opinion that early walks were 
the best thing for her, an*d that nowhere would or could 
Fanny get such pure bracing air, as in Madame la Boche’s 
ancestral garden. Around these demesnes she accordingly 
took her every*morning, declaring there was nothing like gentle 
exercise in the open air for bodily health. 

These walks Madame la Boche and Fanny took alone, and 
thus, after Baptiste had paid two or three of a series of visits 
that threatened to be endless, Madame la Boche had the op¬ 
portunity of talking seriously, as she called it, to her little 
protegee. 

“ Oh ! Madame, do look at that bird,” exclaimed Fanny, 
stopping before the avairy and laughing at a white cockatoo, 
gravely blancing itself on its perch. 

“ Yes, my dear, but I must talk about Monsieur Watt to 
you.” 

No one can answer for the strange fancies of girls. A sud¬ 
den and ludicrous resemblance between the cockatoo and her 
admirer struck Fanny, and she laughed until the tears ran 
down her cheek. Madame la Boche was puzzled at this strange 
merriment; still more puzzled when Fanny explained its 
cause ; and gravely, though kindly, she assured the young girl 
she saw no likeness between those two individuals,—the cocka¬ 
too and Jean Baptiste Watt,—an assurance that nearly sent 
Fanny off again. For, of course, she knew they were not 
alike ; a pretty thing if they were ! 

“ My dear,” said Madame la Boche, u you must not laugh 
about these things, especially this morning, for I want to talk 
to you quite seriously about Baptiste. You know, my dear 
he cannot keep coming here. It is out of the question.” 

Fanny looked very blank. 

u It is out of the question,” resumed Madame la Boche *, • 
“ Monsieur Noiret is surprised at my allowing so much inter¬ 
course between you. It seems I have been quite foolish.” 


SEVEN YEAES. 37 

“ I detest Monsieur Noiret! ” cried Fanny, looking ready to 
eked tears. 

“ My dear, Monsieur Noijet is your best friend,” said 
Madame la Roche. 

“ Oh, no, not he. He broke my doll when I was a child, 
and I have hated him ever since.” 

“It was an accident, my love.” 

“ Madame, he trod on it on purpose. I saw his heel on 
her poor face. I declare I still hear the crash, and I hate 
him ! My best friend ! oh, no, you are my best friend, dear 
Madame.” And Fanny gently and tenderly twined her arms 
around Madame la Roche’s neck. 

“ Yes, my dear,” said that lady, “ but Baptiste must not 
come any more,—or if he comes,” she added, looking Fanny 
in the face, “ it must be as your betrothed husband.” 

Fanny did not reply. 

“ Why not agree to marry him, say two years hence,” pur¬ 
sued the elder lady ; “ his prospects are good, his character is 
excellent, it is a good offer, and you seem to like him ? He 
certainly likes you dearly; what more is needed in marriage ? 
But trifle with him, my dear, you must not; so pray make up 
your mind. Will you have him ? ” 

Thus pressed, Fanny did make up her mind, and from that 
day Jean Baptiste Watt was an accepted suitor. The be¬ 
trothal took place that same evening with some solemnity in 
the old drawing-room, which Madame la Roche never used un¬ 
less on state occasions, and in the awful presence of Charlotte 
and Marie, who stood looking on like two grim statues of 
watchfulness. But there was nothing to watch. Madame la 
Roche sat in her chair and made a gentle little speech to Bap¬ 
tiste, who stood twirling his cap in his hand with rather an 
awkward look, and to. Fanny who stood by him, short and 
saucy, though endeavouring to look both meek and demure. 

“ My dear children,” said Madame la Roche, “ with your 
choice I have nothing to do. You have both chosen for your¬ 
selves,—I hope and trust you have chosen wisely; but with 
your behaviour, before that choice is made legal and binding, 
I have something to do in the way of good counsel. You must 
be very patient, Baptiste; you, Fanny, must be very good,— 
but, dear me,” interrupted Madame la Roche, who was getting 
tired, “ I need say no more, you know all about it,—give him 
your hand, Fanny, and let it be over.” 

Fanny did as she was bid ; Baptiste grasped her hand with 
some emotion. 


38 


SEVEN YE AES. 


“ Fanny,” he said, addressing her for the first time by her 
Christian name, “ Fanny, do you really mean it,—do you like 
me 

“ I forbid Fanny to answer that question,” said the calm 
voice of Charlotte; “ no girl entertaining an atom of self-re¬ 
spect ought to tell a man she likes him, until she has been mar¬ 
ried to him a sufficient length of time to know her own mind.” 

A deep silence followed these ominous words. Marie was 
thinking how to contradict them without taking the part of 
Baptiste.; Madame la Roche did not dare to oppose what she 
could not help considering too harsh a sentence; and Baptiste, 
confounded and somewhat dismayed, looked from Charlotte to 
his betrothed, and from her again to her god-mother. Fanny 
watched him a little while, then darting a rebellious look be¬ 
hind her, she raised herself up on tiptoe, and whispered as near 
Baptiste’s ear as she could reach : 

“ My good old Baptiste, do you mind no one but Fanny.” 

He took both her hands, and grasping them, looked hard 
in her face. 

“ Say you like me, say you really do ! ” he exclaimed with 
some force. 

Fanny was half frightened at his earnestness. 

“ I really do,” she replied, “ but let my hands go, pray 
do.” 

Baptiste released her hands, but first he stooped and kissed 
her on either cheek. 

Two screams of horror arose from the statues behind, but 
Fanny only laughed and blushed, and Madame la Roche, 
rising, did not wait for attack to defend the culprit. 

“ It is all right,” she said, nodding; “ when I was be¬ 

trothed to Monsieur la Roche in this very room, fifty-three 
years ago, he did precisely the same thing; only,” she added 
with a gentle touch of reproof, “ he first requested my dear 
mother’s permission.” 

Baptiste reddened and stammered an apology. 

u Only you see, Madame,” he added, “ there are things 
that upset a man, and to have my little Fanny forbidden to 
say she liked me was more than I could bear. And with all 
due respect to those whom I must respect, of course,” added 
Baptiste, looking firmly at Charlotte and Marie, and drawing 
Fanny’s arm within his own, “ this girl is mine or she is not. 
If she is mine,” he continued strongly, “ she must like me, or—” 

“ Now do not be foolish,” interrupted Fanny, shutting his 
mouth with her little fingers; “ I shall like you just as much 


SEVEN YEARS. 39 

as I.please, neither more nor less.” And, meek as a lamb, 
Baptiste submitted. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Two years had slipped by. 

Madame la Boche had' fallen fast asleep in her chair. The 
fire burned brightly, the lamp shed a subdued light, the room 
was warm within; without the night was stormy, the rain 
beat against the window shutters, the wind moaned round the 
street corner,—in short, nothing was wanted to make an even¬ 
ing nap comfortable and pleasant. 

But human happiness is fleeting; the heavy street door 
opened and closed again with a hollow sound; Madame la 
Boche started, sighed, and awoke. 

“ Alone ! ” she said gently, “ they always leave me alone ; 
they are very tiresome.” 

She said it in the softest voice, a voice that suited her 
pleasant face, framed in white hair and a dainty lace cap, a 
voice that did no.t jar with the quiet enclosed room, warm and 
shrouded, in which Madame la Boche was left to the solitude 
she lamented. 

It was her bed-room; one of those chambres a coucher 
salons that have so long scandalized decorous English travel¬ 
lers. Here Madame la Boche received her visitors and 
friends. The drawing-room, the real salon, was kept for state 
occasions, like the betrothal of Fanny, that occurred seldom, 
and the bed-room, with its old, yet valuable furniture, pro¬ 
fusely ornamented with brass rods, knobs, and handles, did 
duty instead. Madame la Boche seemed made for that room, 
she suited it so well with her lace cap, wadded silk dress, and 
nice black mittens on her little white dimpled hands; and 
that she was really made for it she probably thought herself, 
for she seldom left it, now especially that winter and cold 
had both set in. But if she liked her room, she particularly 
objected to being left alone in it, and therefore on awakening 
from her evening nap, and finding herself in utter solitude, 
she said with her usual gentleness of tone and speech : “ They 
are very tiresome.” 

Scarcely were the words uttered, when Marie, the head 
offender, for it was her especial duty to be with Madame la 
Boche whilst that lady slept, entered the room. 

“ Marie,” began Madame la Boche, u I thought it was 
agreed you were to sit and sew here while I slept.” 


40 


SEVEN YEARS. 


u If I liad not Madame Charlotte’s work to do as well as 
my own,” strongly replied Marie, u I might attend to all my 
duties, hut when I am left to open the door and all that, I can¬ 
not exactly be sitting with Madame.” 

“ And Fanny,” said Madame la Roche. 

“ Oh! if Madame finds fault with Fanny”—ironically 
began Marie. 

“ No such a thing,” interrupted her mistress, 11 and I beg 
that you will not find fault with her,—I do not like it.” 

11 Nor do I,” said Marie, darting a wrathful look at the 
door, or more probably at some one lurking within its shadow, 
“ and I think that if people cannot make themselves be loved, 
they had better be quiet. Come in, Monsieur Baptiste, and 
do not stand there like a post.” 

This adjuration not having had a sufficiently speedy effect, 
Marie resolutely dragged in our old friend, Jean Baptiste 
Watt, who came in towering to the ceiling of the room, which, 
to his seeming confusion, he pretty well half filled. 

“ I declare,” said Marie, breathless, “ that boy is as big as 
a young elephant—and as stupid too, I think,” she added, 
muttering. Well, now, what have you to say to Madame 
about Fanny ? for I know your errand beforehand, I warn 
you.” 

And, prepared to fight her little friend’s battles, Marie 
folded her arms, and putting her head on one side, looked sar¬ 
castically at Baptiste. He was but little altered, and still 
looked the same calm, steady, phlegmatic Fleming he had 
looked two years before. 

“ Good evening, Baptiste,” said Madame la Roche, return¬ 
ing his greeting with a gentle nod; “ are not matters going on 
well between you and Fanny ? What have you done ? ” 

“ Yes, what have you done ? ” suspiciously asked Marie, 
“ I am sure you are in the wrong.” 

“ Perhaps I am,” phlegmatically replied Baptiste, “ at all 
events, Marie, I do not come to accuse her. I only want what 
Madame can get for me, and what I cannot got for myself; a 
fair, straightforward answer.” 

“ You must have patience, you really must,” said Madame 
la Roche. “ Fanny cannot be hurried.” 

“ I have waited these two years,” replied Baptiste, sedately. 
“ I have been put off* from one three months to another,—I 
cannot wait for ever.” 

u You really must be patient,” again said Madame la 
Roche. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


41 


Baptiste looked at her earnestly. 

“ Madame,” he said, “ from the morning when I saw Fanny 
gathering flowers in your garden I liked her. I said so to 
you, to her god-mother, and to her. We were betrothed. 
Every one that knew me said I had done a foolish thing. I 
was new in business, but I had good prospects, and two hun¬ 
dred francs a year of my own; and though I might have 
looked for a wife with money, and though every one says I am 
fond of money—and so I am, and who is not ?—I never asked 
for a sou with Fanny. What you promised, Madame, you 
promised of your own accord.” 

“ Well, I am willing to keep to my word,” said Madame la 
Roche. 

“ But Fanny will not keep to her word,” resumed Baptiste, 
looking gloomy. u I like her dearly,—she knows it, and 
laughs at me for my pains. Well, men are fools if they are 
all like me. When I thought all settled a year ago, Made¬ 
moiselle Fanny told me she did not like my shop, with the back 
parlour, the bed, the table, and two chairs. Then, when she 
saw me exasperated, she put out her hand, patted me on the 
arm, and said if I would only wait three months, we should 
see. Well, men are fools! I waited three months, and was 
put olf for another three months, because she was too young. 
After that came three months because she did not know her 
own mind; and for the same reason I have been put off until 
now, but I will wait no longer,—I told her so yesterday; she 
only laughed, but I am resolved, I am; and in your presence, 
Madame, and with your permission, Fanny shall give me a 
plain yes or no this evening.” 

Madame la Roche had heard him out with the sleepy pla¬ 
cidity of her nature,—Marie, with folded arms, that boded 
war, and an ominous smile. 

“ And so,” she said, wagging her head gently from side to 
side, “ that is what you are come for, Monsieur Baptiste, to 
abuse the poor dear child; to me, her friend, and to Madame, 
her protectress. You amaze me, sir, you amaze me ! ” 

“ I have told the truth,” sturdily said Baptiste, “ and 
Fanny will not deny a word of it; besides, all I ask for is a 
plain yes or no.” 

“ And why should you get it ? ” resumed Marie. 

“Why?” 

“ Yes,” said Marie strongly, and looking at Madame la 
Roche, u why should Fanny give him, or any one else, a plain 
yes or no, as he calls it, unless she so pleases ? ” 


42 


SEVEN YEAES. 


This strong assertion of female rights startled Madame la 
Roche. 

“ Well, Marie,” she said gently, “ I really think Fanny 
ought to do that.” 

“ Oh! if Madame turns against her,” said Marie, with 
lofty indignation, “ I need not wonder that Madame Charlotte 
should take the young man’s part, in preference to her own 
god-daughter’s.” 

“ By the way,” meditatively said Madame la Roche, 11 1 
think we ought to consult with Charlotte, she is the child’s 
god-mother, she can advise her; yes, call Charlotte.” 

Marie tossed her head, and nodded her lofty cap, and it is 
doubtful whether, being gifted with an independent turn of 
mind, she would have obeyed the order of Madame la Roche, 
—whom she considered as much intended by Providence for 
her, Marie’s comfort, as she, Marie, was meant for Madame la 
Roche’s convenience,—if Charlotte, drawn by an intuitive 
knowledge of what was going on, had not made her appear¬ 
ance with a freshly-ironed cap in her hand, by way of apology 
for her intrusion. 

“ Charlotte, we want you! ” exclaimed Madame la Roche 
with a sigh, “ Fanny is not getting on with Baptiste. Had 
you not better interfere ? ” 

From the tone of Madame la Roche, Charlotte concluded 
that Marie had sided with the lover; and, of course, she took 
part with Fanny. 

“I do not wish to contradict Madame,” she said decor¬ 
ously, “ nor to oppose Madame, but there are ways of dealing 
with girls, and when lovers will not take those ways, girls will 
be offended and show it.” 

“ I do not see that,” put in Marie. 

Charlotte ignored the remark, and pursued : 

“ My god-daughter has been used to admiration, which she 
deserves. Monsieur Baptiste does not admire her enough.” 

“ I do not admire her enough ! ” cried Baptiste, “ why, 
what more can I do than wish to marry her ? Is not that 
admiration ? ” 

“ Besides, Fanny is not such a fool as all that,” observed 
Marie, stoutly. 

“ I have long been aware that my god-daughter was dis¬ 
liked in this house,” resignedly said Charlotte, u but I never 
before heard her called a fool. I hope that gross word has 
been applied to her for the first and last time,—in my pres¬ 
ence, at least.” 


SEVEN YEARS. 


43 


“ Marie, hold your tongue ! ” hastily exclaimed Madame la 
Roche, who, though Marie had not yet uttered a word, thought 
it best to forestall the offence by the prohibition, “ Charlotte, 
be silent! Baptiste, I beg you will not add another syllable. 
I can scarcely wonder at your not getting on with Fanny, 
when I see how you upset my whole household. And alto¬ 
gether,” added Madame la Roche, sinking back in her chair 
exhausted with this long speech, and this unusual exertion of 
authority, “ altogether, I think we had better leave this mat¬ 
ter to Fanny. Let her say and do as she wishes.” 

“ Madame,” coolly said Baptiste, 11 that is exactly what I 
wish for, let her give me a plain yes or no. I know there is a 
foolish little fellow opposite, who looks after her; but that,” 
added Baptiste with a tragic frown, u is a matter to be settled 
between him and me.” 

He did not proceed : a light tap was heard at the door, 
and almost immediately Fanny entered. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Two years had altered Fanny. She was not much taller, 
it is true, but she had grown decidedly plump. The freshness 
of a rose had settled on her cheeks, which two dimples adorned. 
And with her bright black eyes, red lips, and white teeth, 
Fanny looked and was a very pretty girl indeed. Yet these 
charms, though real, could scarcely account for the fascination 
of which Baptiste was victim. He had loved, when Fanny 
w r as a slim, sallow girl, whom most people thought plain. With 
his fondness her beauty had nothing to do. And who, that 
scanned her neatly-fitting merino, her tiny apron, in the 
pockets of which her hands rested with coquettish grace, who, 
above all, that saw the white fantastic cap perched on the top 
of her head, could suppose that Fanny might become the hero¬ 
ine of a love tragedy, or, at least, of a melo-drama. It seemed 
absurd ; comedy, light, careless comedy, was written in the 
whole aspect of the Parisian girl. As well might two men 
draw swords about a butterfly, as quarrel for the preference *of 
this flighty, pert-looking little creature. 

But there is no accounting for tastes. Baptiste was a 
grave, sober Fleming; yet no sooner did Fanny make her ap¬ 
pearance in the room of Madame la Roche, than he turned red, 
then pale, and in -short, betrayed every sign of strong emotion. 
On seeing him, Fanny pouted like a naughty child who ex- 


44 


SEVEN YE AES. 


pects a scolding, and knows that the said scolding is de¬ 
served. 

“ Fanny,” mildly said Madame la Roche, “what is the 
meaning of all this ? Why do you trifle with an honest man 
like Baptiste ? I fear it is wrong, my dear child, really wrong.” 

11 Wrong! ” indignantly muttered Marie. 

Fanny stood leaning against a rosewood commode, her 
hands still in her pockets, her eyes downcast, her whole aspect 
expressing wilfulness and caprice. With some emotion Bap¬ 
tiste spoke. 

“ Fanny, I did not come here to torment you. I merely 
want a plain answer from you. Tell me once for all, 1 Bap¬ 
tiste, I dislike you, 5 and I shall trouble you no more.” 

Fanny smiled prettily without looking up, and did not seem 
in the least inclined to pronounce this harsh sentence. It was 
Charlotte who spoke for her. 

“ Dislike him,” she said with a sneer , 11 things had come to 
a pretty pass when a man expected to be disliked by a pretty 
girl” 

“But I do not dislike you at all, Baptiste,” mildly said 
Fanny. 

“ Well, then, Fanny, have me,” he urged ; “ once for all, 
say yes. Madame approves our marriage, your god-mother 
Charlotte agrees to it; I am well off.” 

“ Yes, yes, I know,” said Fanny, looking amiable; “you 
have two hundred francs a year, a shop, a back parlour, a bed, 
a table, and two chairs : I know it all by heart.” 

Baptiste gave her so moody a look, that Marie audibly ut¬ 
tered the word 1 wretch ! ’ and that even Madame la Roche 
observed: 

“ Well, but you must have patience, you know.” 

“ Monsieur does not condescend to have patience,” said 
Charlotte; “ a girl must throw herself into his arms. I never 
heard anything like it,—it is abominable.” 

“ I do not see why Fanny should marry just yet,” said 
Madame la Roche, with a touch of querulousness ; “ she is very 
young.” 

• “ I am not against marriage,” observed Charlotte with irri¬ 
tating mildness, “ no, certainly not; but yet I know that if I 
had waited, say five years, to marry, I might have chosen and 
fared differently. My husband was a good sort of man, but 
he was a working-man, and five years later I might have had 
a captain ; over and over he told me so.” 

“ I thought he had a wife,” said Marie. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


45 


11 Madame ! ” ejaculated Charlotte with wrathful majesty. 

u Hush ! ” said Madame la Roche, without heeding them. 
Baptiste still looked at Fanny with steady gloom. She smiled 
at the fire, apparently unconscious of his look. 

“ Fanny,” he said, “ a plain yes or no.” Fanny hit her lip, 
coloured to her very hair, and looking at him steadily, she said : 
“ No.” 

Baptiste turned extremely pale; his eye grew dull and 
lustreless, his lip quivered, his voice was scarcely audible as 
he said : “ Thank you, Fanny,” and, without remembering the 
presence of Madame la Roche, he walked out of the room. 

“ Bear me, how very strange,” said Madame la Roche, 
looking startled. 

“ Served him right,” sturdily said Marie. 

“ Then you did not like him after all, Fanny ? ” pursued 
the lady. 

“ Like him ! ” almost screamed Marie, “ who could like 
such a boor ? ” 

Fanny said nothing: she looked calm and unconcerned, 
but rather thoughtful. 

“Still I am .afraid you have trifled with him, my dear,” 
said Madame la Roche, “ I really am.” 

Marie was going to break out, but Fanny forestalled her. 
Madame la Roche was trying to look stern, but Fanny looked 
archly in her face, and Madame la Roche’s anger melted away 
in a half smile. At once Fanny put in her easy justification. 

“ I like him, Madame, I really do; but not enough to 
marry him, and go and live with him in that little hole of a 
shop, with the back parlour, &e. I should die with ennui 
there, I know I should, or run away, which would be worse. 
Is it not better, then, to have done with him now, than marry 
him and repent ? ” 

“ Of course it is,” said Marie, stoutly. 

“ That child has a deal of sense,” said Madame la Roche. 

u Sense ! ” cried Marie, “ she is made up of sense.” 

“ Yes, she is a clever little thing,” said Madame la Roche, 
and they both looked admiringly at Fanny, who seemed 
strangely puzzled at all this praise. Perhaps it did not strike 
her that sense was her particular quality; she did not, how¬ 
ever, attempt to dispute the fact, but implying by her looks 
that Madame la Roche and Marie were welcome to admire her 
as much as they pleased, she took her usual seat by the fireside. 

Charlotte, who had been lingering about the room, now 
thought proper to finish Baptiste’s business by observing: 


46 


SEVEN YEAJIS. 


“ I am sorry for that young man, I really am ; though 
coarse and obtuse, he was goodnatured, and, I believe, honest.” 

“ Baptiste is not coarse,” said Fanny, looking vexed. 

“ Big, my dear, big, decidedly big,” said Charlotte. 

“ Big ! ” echoed Fanny ; but unable to deny the impeach¬ 
ment, she added no more, and turning to Madame la Boche, 
she quietly asked what she was to read. On this hint, Char¬ 
lotte and Marie withdrew, whilst Madame la Boche medita¬ 
tively replied : 

“ Mariette is too flimsy, I think we will have the Three 
Masked Ladies.” 

Accordingly in a clear voice Fanny began : u The mid¬ 
night bell was tolling, when three ladies, masked and clothed 
in black, appeared in the place of Notre Dame.” 

“ Fanny ! ” exclaimed Madame la Boche,—whose placidity 
all the horrors of the French romantic school could not dis¬ 
turb,—“ Fanny, it was a good offer! It is almost a pity you 
rejected that young man.” 

“ Perhaps it is,” demurely said Fanny, and going on with 
the Three Masked Ladies, she thought: “ and suppose I should 
regret it, cannot I get him back again ? T have only to open 
the window, look out, and let him see me, and all is right.” 

In this easy frame of mind Fanny read on till ten struck. 
She then laid down her book and Marie appeared, bearing a 
small tray with a glass and decanter. Madame la Boche took 
her frugal supper of toast and hot wine and water, allowed 
Marie and Fanny to undress her, and entering the downy bed 
that closed around her, she softly said from behind the damask 
curtain : 

u Marie, do not tease Fanny about Baptiste; I know he is 
a good fellow; but since she does not care about him, we 
must not tease her.” 

And, closing her eyes, Madame la Boche fell fast asleep, 
oblivious of Baptiste, love, Marie, and everything. 

“ Tease Fanny about him ! ” muttered Marie, “ very likely, 
indeed! ” 


It did not seem probable, but the spirit of contradiction 
is strong, and it had sufficient power over Marie to make her 
scold Fanny not exactly in favour of Baptiste, but about him. 
Charlotte, who was present, mildly defended her god-daughter, 
and her mildness having, as usual, the effect of oil on Marie’s 
fiery temper, a dire quarrel was the result. Fanny heard them 
both with evident impatience, and put an end to the argument 
by saying saucily: 


SEVEN YE AES. 


47 


“ I did not have Baptiste because I did not like him, and 
I do not know why I did not like him; but if I did like him, 
I would have him to-morrow.” 

And, tired of hearing about Baptiste, she went to her 
room. It was close to Madame la Boche’s. Like that lady’s 
apartment, it looked out on the street. The shop of Baptiste 
was exactly opposite. From that shop there came a streak of 
light, which Fanny watched on the window curtains. She 
lay awake, though in bed. Madame la Boche was sleeping 
calmly in the room on her right; Marie and Charlotte were 
quarrelling—but no longer about Baptiste—in another room 
on her left; but she could not sleep like one, nor forget like 
the others. Perhaps her conscience pricked her; perhaps 
the pity of the young is stronger than the sympathy or than 
the anger of age. 

“ What can he be doing ? ” she thought, and she got up to 
see. The street was silent; eleven was striking; she drew 
back the curtains and looked. 

Baptiste was hard at work ; he was finishing a chair for 
Madame La Boche—a chair which Fanny had worked,—the 
last of the memorable set begun two years before, but the 
nature of his task did not mollify her displeasure at the fact 
that, after parting from her, Baptiste could work. She gave 
the dark and dingy little shop a scornful look; live there, 
indeed ! her eye fell with disdain on the sturdy figure of the 
young Fleming, nailing and hammering by the light of a 
wretched tallow candle. * v 

“ Much trouble there is on his mind ! ” thought Fanny, 
vexed at her needless pity; “ see how he works to earn a few 
francs; that man loves nothing but money,”—and dropping 
the curtain, she went back to bed, and soon slept soundly. 

For Fanny had grown pretty, and with her beauty she had 
acquired admirers, a circumstance to which no pretty girl is 
indifferent, and which had thrown Baptiste’s love considerably 
in the shade. 

“ I like him; I really do,” she often thought; “ but then, 
why should I marry so soon ? ” which prudent reflection, the 
aversion she felt to exchange a pleasant home for the gloomy 
little back parlour and a business life, very much strengthened. 
And thus little by little her love had grown weak, and she 
could bear to part from Baptiste with little emotion, and after 
parting from him she could sleep. 


48 


SEVEN YEARS. 


CHAPTER X. 

Early the next morning there came a ring at Madame la 
Roche’s door; it was Fanny who opened. Baptiste stood be¬ 
fore her with the chair on his head. 

“ Good morning, Mademoiselle Fanny,” he said civilly. 

“ Good morning,” she replied shortly, for she thought he 
must have worked all night, avaricious creature ! 

“ I have brought back Madame la Roche’s chair.” 

u Put it‘here,” said Fanny, showing him into a back room. 

u I have done my best with it,” said Baptiste, giving her a 
doubtful look ; “ I think she will like it.” 

u I dare say she will.” 

Baptiste sighed and turned away, then turned back. 

“ Fanny,” he said, “ I may have spoken harshly last 
night; I am sorry for it. I hope you bear me no ill-will.” 

“ Ill-will! ” said Fanny, laughing, 11 ill-will! what for ? ” 

Baptiste hung his head, and said slowly: 

“ For no particular reason, Fanny ; but since you bear me 
no ill-will, I suppose we are at peace.” 

Fanny yawned a little behind her dimpled hand at what 
she considered the prosiness of her former lover, and shivered 
slightly, for the doors were all open, and the wind was whist¬ 
ling in sharply, but she tried to remain thoroughly good- 
humoured, and to say with a pleasant patronizing nod, “ Yes, 
Monsieur Baptiste, we are at peace.” 

Baptiste stroked his chin and smiled; he was wondering 
perhaps at two years wasted, at the blindness and folly of his 
own heart, but he made no comment. 

“ Good morning, Mademoiselle Fanny,” he said, civilly, 
and he slowly walked down stairs. 

Fanny went to work as usual that day, and came back at 
eight. She found Marie very busy, and rather out of temper. 
The daughter of Madame la Roche, Madame Dupuis, and her 
child, had come, “ and settled themselves down,” as Marie 
termed it, in the quiet dwelling of their relative. 

“ They are come to stay ? ” asked Fanny. 

“ Of course they are; Monsieur Dupuis is going out of 
town, and must needs pack his wife and child upon us. I 
wonder at the man. Just hear how that child screams; poor 
Madame la Roche’s head must be splitting by this; and then 
it is 1 Marie, run and fetch us some biscuits; Marie, some 
milk; Marie, call the coal-heaver to take away the naughty 


SEVEN YEARS. 


49 


child ! ’ I wish people who have children, would let people 
who have none, and would have none, he quiet once for all. I 
think, too,” she added, giving a fiery look to Charlotte, who 
was knitting placidly in a corner of the kitchen, u I think it 
very strange, I say, that those who nursed the mothers give 
themselves so little trouble about the children, but leave it 
all to others.” 

Charlotte stuck one of her knitting needles in her hair and 
looked meditative. 

“A sweet child was Mademoiselle Cecile,” she said, u and 
her boy is just like her. Her very portrait: a sweet child.” 

“ I wish you had the sweet child to yourself then,” hotly 
said Marie, “ for I have enough of him. Adittle wreteh I call 
him.” 

“ Bless his heart,” said Charlotte, resuming her knitting. 

u And Baptiste,” said Fanny, “ has he been again ? ” 

“ Baptiste ! pray what should bring Baptiste here ? ” 
sharply answered Marie. 

“ He is not paid for his chair.” 

“ Child, let Madame settle that, and do not mind Baptiste 
nor his chair neither. Surely there is enough trouble on our 
minds without him.” 

“ But Marie, his shop is shut, and Madame Leroux says he 
is gone.” 

“ Gone ! ay, gone to the barrier to drink.” 

“ Baptiste never drinks,” said Fanny, looking vexed. 

u Hear me, child, do not fly at me; the lad will turn up 
again and come for his money. I wish that were all we had 
to teaze or vex us just now.” 

Marie could think but of her own troubles and wrongs; and 
even when Fanny succeeded in convincing her that Baptiste 
was really gone, all Marie answered was : “ Well, let him be 
gone ! who regrets him ? ” 

“ No one,” shortly said Fanny ; and there the matter ended. 

Madame Hupuis was as quiet a little lady as her mother, yet 
she and her child succeeded in upsetting Madame la Roche’s 
peaceable household. Before three days were over, the man¬ 
servant and the cook threatened to give notice, and Marie gave 
her mistress the news, with a sullen satisfaction that spoke of 
secret wrongs endured with ill-subdued resentment. 

Madame la Roche was sitting in her arm-chair in her pleas¬ 
ant bed-room; her daughter occupied the chair which was for¬ 
merly Fanny’s, and the child sat on the carpet, strewed with toys. 

“ Yes, Madame, go they will,” said Marie. 


50 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ How very strange ! ” exclaimed Madame la Roclie, look¬ 
ing more bewildered than dismayed. “ What can ail them, 
Cecile ? ” 

Her daughter, thus addressed, looked helpless, as if too 
strong an effort had been required from her sluggish intelli¬ 
gence, but compelled herself to reply : 

“ I really cannot tell, maman. They must be very unrea¬ 
sonable. Marie, will you tell the cook that I shall want some 
more of that panade for Charles ? ” Marie smiled grimly. 
“ And also tell her to.stew me down the calf’s foot, and will you 
tell the coachman that we shall take a drive this afternoon ? ” 

“ The horses have taken cold, Madame; and really the 
cook cannot attend to the dinner and to everything.” 

Madame Dupuis seemed astonished. 

“ Oh ! then, you will do it, Marie,” she placidly suggested. 

“ Madame forgets that I have all Monsieur Charles’s things 
to iron, and that Madame Charlotte will do nothing.” 

“ Well, then, let it be Fanny,” put in Madame la Roche; 
“ Fanny is very neat and handy.” 

“ Fanny is very ill in bed,” said Marie. 

“ Dear me, what ails her ? ” 

„ “ Tier head aches.” 

“ Ah ! I have such bad head aches ! ” sighed Madame 
Dupuis. 

“ I hope she will be well this evening,” said Madame la 
Roche, anxiously. 

“ It is not likely,” drily replied Marie, “ she has been un¬ 
well these two days, and is only getting worse.” 

“ Two days ! and you never told me, Marie.” 

“ Madame never asked about Fanny,” replied Marie, look¬ 
ing deeply injured, “ and of course it was not my place to in¬ 
trude Fanny upon Madame.” 

Madame la Roche looked guilty and penitent. 

“ Dear me, I am very sorry,” she said, “ but where is she ? ” 

“ Fanny is in her room, Madame.” 

“ And I never heard her ! ” 

“ Perhaps Monsieur Charles made too much noise,” was 
the pointed reply. 

“ I must go and see her,” said Madame la Roche, with a 
sigh; “Cecile, cannot that child be induced to make less 
noise ? ” 

“ No, maman,” placidly replied her daughter, looking at 
Charles, who was flinging his toys about with great vigour, 


SEVEN YEARS. 


51 


“ no, I assure you Monsieur Dupuis and I have often tried, 
but we never could induce him to be more quiet.” 

“ I’d induce him! ” muttered Marie. 

Peaceable Madame la Roche submitted, however, without 
demur, and prudently shunning the immediate vicinity of her 
grand-child, she left the apartment and entered Fanny’s room. 

Fanny was up and dressed, but looking so ill and so wretched, 
that Madame la Roche was quite shocked at the change in her 
appearance. 

She sat down by her, took her hand, which was burning, 
and kindly asked what ailed her. 

“ Nothing, Madame,” was the low reply, listlessly spoken. 

u You seem feverish,” said Madame la Roche. 

11 My head aches a little ; but indeed it is nothing.” 

“ How very odd that you should look so ill about nothing,” 
simply suggested Madame la Roche. 

Fanny turned very red, then pale, then she said : 

“ I assure you Madame, that if you suppose I am thinking 
of Baptiste—” 

“ My dear child, why should I think that ? ” 

She seemed surprised at the suggestion. 

Fanny did not speak, but with some emotion she turned 
her head away from the mild astonished look of the elder lady. 
This simple little act, however, proved fatal to her composure, 
for, to avoid a glance more benevolent than penetrating, she 
looked through the window into the street, and there she saw 
exactly facing her the closed shop of Baptiste, with the words 
To Let on the shutters. 

This was more than Fanny could bear. She hid her face 
in her hands and burst into tears. 

11 Dear me! ” said Madame la Roche, very much amazed. 

Fanny cried and sobbed as if her heart would break; at 
length she ceased, and, looking up, she said : 

“ I dare say, Madame, you think I am crying for Baptiste; 
but that is not it; yet it is about him I am crying, I do not 
deny it. Madame, I could bear to think that I have lost him 
by my own folly, but I cannot bear to remember how that 
same folly has driven an honest man to ruin : that is what 
cuts me.” 

“ Dear me ! ” again said Madame la Roche, not knowing 
what else to say on such short warning; but her mind gradually 
rallied and came round to its natural point ; she gave 
Fanny’s hand a kind and compassionate squeeze, and said 
gently: 


52 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ My dear child, do not exaggerate. Baptiste is gone, it 
is true, and I am sorry for the poor fellow; but since you did 
not like him, what was to be done ? You must not suppose, 
moreover, that he will go to ruin for having left his shop. I 
dare say it was not a thriving business.” 

“ But, Madame, do you not know that he has enlisted,” 
said Fanny, “ that he is a soldier; that he may be sent to 
Algeria and killed ? ” 

“ Enlisted ! oh, dear no; depend upon it you are mis¬ 
taken.” 

“ Indeed, Madame, I am not; the person who told me saw 
him in his regimentals; and his regiment is gone many leagues 
away by this.” 

Madame la Boche looked gently sceptical, and Fanny had 
to talk a great deal before her protectress was finally con¬ 
vinced. When she was at length persuaded that Baptiste was 
a soldier, and was really gone, she said gently : 

“ Well, it is a pity; but what is to be done ? you did not 
like him.” 

“ But I do like him,” cried Fanny, fairly provoked at so 
much blindness, “ and I do not want him to be shot. Oh ! 
dear, what shall I do ? ” 

“ I suppose I have forgotten all about the wa}^s of girls ! ” 
ejaculated Madame la Roche. “ Well, my dear, do not cry so, 
only tell me this : if Baptiste were to come back and ask you, 
would you marry him now ? ” 

“ Marry him ! ” said Fanny, drying her eyes, and looking 
very much as if all her perversity were coming back with the 
question, u but since he is far away, Madame ? ” 

“ My dear, you really must give me a yes or a no. I can 
do nothing without that.” 

There was a great struggle between love and pride, but 
love prevailed ; and though not without many hesitating sighs 
and blushes, Fanny at length confessed that if Baptiste would 
but forgive her and come back, he should have no reason to 
complain of her. 

“ Well, my dear, do not fret. I shall do my best,” said 
Madame la Roche rising, and leaving Fanny to such comfort 
as these words suggested, she went and called Marie to a secret 
council. 

Marie remained mute on learning that Fanny was fretting 
for Baptiste; but though she looked very much amazed, she 
declared that she knew it all along. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


53 


“ I knew what the girl was fretting for, Madame. I knew 
it quite well.” 

“ Dear me, I did not, Marie.” 

“ Oh ! no, Madame was too busy with Monsieur Charles 
to think of poor little Fanny ; poor dear ! ” 

“ Really, Marie, you surprise me. If you knew the truth, 
why did you not come and tell it to me ? If I had known the 
young man had enlisted—” 

“ He did it to break the poor child’s heart,” wrathfully e in¬ 
terrupted Marie. “ Rely upon it, Madame, that was his 
motive.” 

“The young man has been hasty,” mildly said Madame la 
Roche, “ still his own feelings suffered.” 

“ Feelings ! ” interrupted Marie again, “ does Madame 
believe men have feelings ? ” 

This was so general a question, and it involved so many 
delicate matters and recollections, that Madame la Roche 
paused ere she answered with a sigh : 

“ We will not talk about that now, Marie ; the question is 
to get this young man back, since Fanny wishes for him.” 

“ So I think,” said Marie, with whom Baptiste was neither 
more nor less than a flesh and blood toy, which had hit Fanny’s 
fancy ; and she no more thought of finding fault with the 
young girl’s choice than the tender parent, whose darling 
clioses a harlequin doll, quarrels with the pleasure which the 
hideous thing affords the beloved child. 

“ But it may not be easy to get him back,” said Madame 
la Roche. 

Marie groaned, and confessed that men were monsters now 
and then. 

“ But we will do our best,” pursued the gentle lady, “ only 
you must help me, Marie.” 

Then followed a long and close conversation, chiefly re¬ 
lating to the best means to be adopted for securing the return 
of the fugitive, and in which so many plans were proposed and 
rejected, that, by the time it was over, Madame la Roche was 
fairly exhausted. 

Marie generously took pity on her mistress, and remarked : 

“ Let Madame take no trouble about the cook or coach¬ 
man,—I will make them stay, whether they like it or not. I 
should like to hear them grumble about Monsieur Charles 
again ! A fine spirited little fellow ! And as to Madame 
Charlotte, who hates her own god-daughter, I know, she shall 
hear a piece of my mind before the day is out.” 


54 


SEVEN YEARS. 


Upon which Marie, who was the soul and spirit of the 
household, rushed to the kitchen, settled the cook and the 
coachman in a twinkling, and fought a dire battle with 
Charlotte,—if that can be called a battle of which the fighting 
was all on one side : the enemy, like Wellington at Waterloo, 
conquering by dint of silent stubbornness, and, w T hat was even 
more provoking, taking to herself the merit of future success, 
without incurring the risks of failure. 

y, ay,” she calmly said, going on with her knitting, and 
taking advantage of such acknowledgments as had escaped 
Marie during the heat of the contest, “ I know what the child 
wants.” 

“ Well, and what does she want ? ” asked Marie. 

Charlotte’s reply was an allusion to the history of her 
father’s sister, whose lover returned after fifteen years. 

“ And what has that to do with Fanny ? ” indignantly asked 
Marie. 

A supercilious smile was Charlotte’s only answer. 

CHAPTER XI. 

Promises are sweet; they lead on the wings of Hope to 
the happy land of Desire, that favored abode of youth. The 
parting words of Madame la Itoche had buoyed up Fanny; all 
was right, or would be; Baptiste would come back, forgive, 
and be forgiven. She cared for no more, and gave no thought 
to the future beyond these fair hopes. 

But though Madame la Itoche had promised, nothing ap¬ 
peared to come of her words. Baptiste neither returned nor 
■wrote. No fond, happy, and forgiving lover came back to the 
light and imprudent girl, who did not know her own mind, and 
had trifled with her own heart. Perhaps it could not end so 
easily : strange and deep must have been the despair wdiicli had 
led the calm phlegmatic Fleming to take this impassioned step : 
a despair not easily soothed, a step not readily revoked. Bap¬ 
tiste loved deeply; too deeply, no doubt, to submit to lose 
Fanny, and yet stay near her, breathe the same air, and, may 
be, see his inconstant mistress favor a happy rival. It was 
easier to throw up business, future prospects, and all for which 
he had hitherto lived, than to remain and behold that dreary 
result. Better become a soldier, be sent off to Algeria, and 
shot by some Arab, and have an end of it all, than linger and 
suffer from a pain which, though it may pass away with time, is 


SEVEN YE AES. 


55 


intolerable whilst it lasts. And perhaps because he had suf¬ 
fered so much, Baptiste did not come back. Fanny said 
nothing, but the roses forsook her cheek, the light tied from 
her eyes. She did not complain ; she even said she felt re¬ 
markably well, and she looked wretchedly ill. Madame la Boche 
was concerned; Marie was cross; and Charlotte, whom a fit of 
rheumatism kept to her bed, was gently peevish,—love and 
lovers were all nonsense. There was but one real thing in life, 
and that was rheumatism; Fanny heard her, and did not argue 
the point, she felt too sad and too weary. 

Everything else went on as usual in the little household, 
that is to say, everything continued to be upset by Madame 
Dupuis and her child ; even the placid mother of the former 
seemed heartily wearied of this long, tiresome visit, and was 
heard to observe once or twice : “ How very long Monsieur 
Dupuis is staying.” 

At the end of a week the cloud which had been hanging 
over the family became a settled gloom. Marie, with eyes and 
face on fire, took Fanny aside one evening to say to her vehe¬ 
mently : 

“ Fanny, never think of that wretch again; mind my words, 
never think of him.” 

u Very well,” said Fanny, with tolerable calmness. 

The same evening Madame la Boche likewise spoke to the 
young girl; her language was more gentle, but the meaning 
was the same. 

“ My dear child,” she said mildly, 11 1 have done my best, 
and I have failed; try and forget Baptiste.” 

“ Yes, Madame,” said Fanny, with apathetic calmness. 

Charlotte, too, thought proper to impart the information 
to her god-daughter, and to add to it a dose of comfort and 
advice, judiciously mingled. 

11 Child,” she said to Fanny, who was sitting with her, 
“ you will live to know that love is a folly. Have I not been 
married, and do I not know all about it? Forget that big 
Fleming, my love; forget him, and depend upon it yon. will 
sleep sound at night, eat well in the day, and come round. 
Bless you, you will marry some other man some day. Yes, 
my love, and have a dozen of children, I dare say. I had a 
friend once, whose name was Jeanne, and who was desperately 
in love three times, and ended by marrying a man she did not 
care a pin about, and who made her as happy as the day was 
long.” 

What could Fanny answer to this, especially when Char- 


56 


SEVEN YEARS. 


lotte concluded by declaring to her that life held but one real 
trouble, and that its name was rheumatism ! 

Fanny did not contradict; she did not answer ; but she 
thought of Baptiste from morning till night, and from night 
till morning. 

Fanny was melancholy ; Marie was kept in a state of per¬ 
manent indignation by the exacting ways of Madame Dupuis 
and her boy; Charlotte was cross, and could not be spoken to; 
and all this sadness, wrath, and ill-temper acted on easy 
Madame la Roche. She could not refrain from some secret 
murmurs. “ It was love, tiresome love, that had done it all. 
Until love came they were happy. Fanny was merry; there 
was even something pleasant about the quarrels of Charlotte 
and Marie : but now all was wrong, all was upset.” Madame 
la Roche could not indulge in such thoughts without looking 
disturbed and unhappy; and Madame Dupuis, at length be¬ 
coming aware of the fact, observed one evening, as she sat with 
her mother : 

“ Maman, is anvthing the matter? ” 

“ Nothing, my dear. Fanny, go and fetch me the second 
volume of Racine from the library, if you please.” 

Fanny, who sat with the two ladies embroidering at a frame 
a little apart, rose and obeyed. 

The library v r as an old-fashioned piece of furniture, filled 
with many old-fashioned books. It stood in the dining-room, 
which it half filled, and was rarely opened. Fanny put down 
on a table the light she had brought with her; and instead 
of looking for the second volume of Racine, she sat dow r n in 
the nearest of the old-fashioned arm-chairs around her, and 
yielded for a while to the luxury of solitary despondency. 
Baptiste had been gone three v r eeks; it was a week since 
Marie and Madame la Roche had bid her cease to hope. Oh ! 
what a long dreary week she had spent; sewdng all day,— 
coming home at night to sit in that dull weary room, where the 
two ladies spoke in subdued murmurs, by the fireside, and 
where the boy stamped and shouted, whilst her needle for ever 
v 7 ent in and out the canvass on which she v r as working the first 
of a new set of chairs for Madame la Roche. “And is it 
possible!” thought Fanny, groaning, “that I am to live for 
ever so ? How different a life I might have had with him ! I 
disliked the shop and the back room; they w r ere better any day 
than this dull stupid life I lead here, fretting myself to death 
for what cannot be, and for what is.” 

And by “what is” Fanny did not understand merely her 


SEVEN YEARS. 


57 

own troubles—slie had distracting visions of a dusty and way¬ 
worn soldier, of a wounded man, of death-beds in tented camps, 
of war and all its horrors. Her heart swelled, her tears flowed, 
and leaning her head on the table near which she sat, she cried 
long and bitterly. 

“Fanny ! ” said a voice behind her. 

Fanny looked up with a cry. 

Baptiste, pale, haggard, and worn, but Baptiste in flesh and 
blood, stood behind her. 

Of what avail are resolves in life ? Fanny had thought 
that if she saw Baptiste again she would meet him with peni¬ 
tent sorrow; Baptiste had firmly resolved that before he for¬ 
gave his sinning mistress, he would make her agree to a regu¬ 
lar series of conditions ; and when they met, Fanny could only 
laugh and cry for joy, and throw her arms around his neck, 
like a happy child; and Baptiste could only take her in his 
arms and hold her fast like a treasure lost, long sought for, 
and found at last. It was Fanny, moreover, who made all the 
conditions. 

“You must never go away again,” she cried. 

“Never!” said Baptiste, who was too happy to do more 
than echo her -words and look at her; and who, moreover, for¬ 
got that this submission was by no means what he had in¬ 
tended. 

“ And you must never be so foolish as to think I do not 
like you.” / 

“Very well,” said Baptiste, meek as a lamb; and who 
would have gone on promising till morning, if Fanny had not 
suddenly asked: 

“ And how and why did you come back, sir ? ” 

The countenance and manner of Baptiste underwent a com¬ 
plete change. 

“ Madame la Roche wrote to me,” he replied; “ she wanted 
to buy me out, but though people say I am fond of money, it 
is not the money of others I am fond of, so I thanked her and 
declined. Still I could not help thinking of you; so at last I 
made up my mind, I bought myself out, and came back.” 

Fanny reddened and bit her lip. 

“ I suppose Madame la Roche wrote to say I was breaking 
my heart about you,—I wonder you believed her.” 

Baptiste put Fanny away; he was pale but cool, his brow 
was calm but resolute, and his look was settled and almost 
cold. “ Fanny,” he said, “ we will say little, but it shall be to 
the purpose. When will you marry me!” 

3 * 


58 


SEVEN YEARS. 


The dawning rebellion of Fanny fled as by magic. 

“ When you please,” she said, trying to smile ; “ you have 
travelled from a sufficient distance to have your way.” 

If Baptiste had followed his own will he would have said, 
“ Let it be in a week,” but generosity prevailed over passion, 
and he merely said: 

u Then, Fanny, let it be this day month.” 

“ Very well,” said Fanny; “ if my god-mother, Marie, and 
Madame la Roche agree to it, this day month let it be.” 

“ I have your word,” impressively said Baptiste. 

“ My word of honour,” said Fanny, laying her left hand 
on her heart, and giving him her right hand with a grand air. 

“ Mind, Fanny, this day month,” repeated Baptiste, se¬ 
cretly uneasy at the delay, though of his own fixing. 

Fanny laughed gaily. 

“ Do not be tiresome,” she said, “ you will often wish it 
undone before the year is out.” 

“ The year will be out in six weeks, Fanny.” 

u Oh! if you begin finding out all the stupid things I 
say,” began Fanny hotly, “ we shall never have done,” she 
would have added, but had not time. 

Madame la Roche, surprised at the non-appearance of 
Fanny with the second volume of Racine, and thinking that 
the young girl must have fainted away alone, and be lying in 
a swoon in one of the arm-chairs, had kindly come out herself 
to see what the matter was. A sound of voices which she 
heard before opening the door changed the current of her 
thoughts from a fainting fit to an invasion of thieves ; and 
Baptiste was so altered, and his presence was so unexpected, 
that if she had not seen the smile on Fanny’s lips, Madame la 
Roche might have persisted in the latter belief. 

“ It is I, Baptiste Watt, Madame,” said the young man, 
perceiving he was not recognised; “ I am come back and Fanny 
has promised to marry me this day month.” 

“To-day is Friday,” said Madame la Roche, nervously, 
“ not this day month, Baptiste, to-morrow month.” 

“ As Madame pleases,” replied Baptiste, looking red^ and 
annoyed. 

“ But how very odd that you are come back ! ” exclaimed 
Madame la Roche with retrospective wonder; “ you wrote that 
you would not.” 

“ I beg Madame’s pardon, I only wrote that I did not wish 
to be bought out by Madame, but I bought myself out, and 
here I am.” 


SEVEN YEARS. 


59 


“ You are very independent,” said Madame la Roche, a 
little testily. “Well, well, Fanny shall have the fifteen hun¬ 
dred francs I promised on her wedding day.” 

“Fifteen hundred francs is a nice sum,” said Baptiste, 
looking pleased, “ and I do not deny that I would rather have 
it with Fanny than not, though it will not make me a bit 
fonder of her.” 

He looked so fondly at the young girl as he spoke, that 
Madame la Roche felt convinced Fanny would be a happy wo¬ 
man. She felt moved, and very much inclined to shed a few 
tears, when the propriety of making him appear before Char¬ 
lotte suddenly occurred to her. 

“ You must speak to Charlotte,” she said gravely^; “Char¬ 
lotte is the child’s god-mother, and we can settle nothing with¬ 
out her.” 

Fanny smiled archly at her lover in a way that said plainly: 
“You know better than that, do you not % ” but slipping her 
arm within his, she led him at once to the presence of her god¬ 
mother. 

Marie was sitting with Charlotte, whom rheumatism still 
kept captive, for somehow or other the two enemies were not 
happy apart, and Marie held it her duty to rouse Charlotte, to 
stir her up by gentle discourse. The soothing down of in¬ 
valids she held an egregious mistake. “ Sickly people are al¬ 
ready low,” thought and said Marie, “it is rousing they want. 
Therefore rouse them up.” Acting on this judicious and be¬ 
nevolent principle, she gave her spare time to Charlotte, with 
whom she sat several hours daily, anxiously exerting herself 
to rouse her. It happened indeed that Charlotte roused Marie 
as often as Marie roused her; but this reversion of their natural 
positions Marie kindly disregarded, and persevered in her en¬ 
deavours. 

The two friends were engaged as usual, when Madame la 
Roche opened the door of Charlotte’s room, and ushered in 
Baptiste and Fanny. Charlotte showed no great signs of 
wonder; she jvas not in the habit of betraying her emotions, 
but Marie, who was more unsophisticated, stared at Baptiste 
in mingled surprise and wrath. 

“ Well, sir,” she began. 

“ Marie, you must not scold,” interrupted her mistress; 
“ the young man is a very good young man, though a little 
flighty”—Fanny looked demurely at her betrothed, who seemed 
surprised at this definition of himself—“and rather too disin¬ 
terested for this present state of society.” 


60 


SEVEN YEAES. 


“ Hnmpli! ” grumbled Maria, who had always held Baptiste 
close and rather avaricious. 

“ I know what I am saying,” testily resumed Madame la 
Roche; “ but, as I said, he is a good young man, and Fanny 
likes him, and they are to be married to-morrow month, and 
they are come to get the consent of their friend and god¬ 
mother, Charlotte.” 

Charlotte, who sat in an arm-chair, whence indeed she could 
not move, nodded and smiled blandly. 

“ I knew,” she said, “ that my efforts for the happiness of 
these young people could not long remain unavailing; but I 
expected Baptiste sooner.” 

“Sooner,” sneered Marie, “sooner! why how then could 
Monsieur make our poor child fret herself pale and ill for his 
sake if he came back? No, no, he must stay away of course, 
and Fanny must wait his leisure.” 

“ There, sir,” said Fanny, “ you hear how badly you have 
behaved, I hope you will show yourself penitent.” 

“ He show himself penitent! ” screamed Marie. 

“No, no, you really must not scold,” said Madame la 
Roche. “ I am an infallible judge of character, and I know 
that Baptiste will make an excellent husband.” 

Marie gave her mistress a look of infinite compassion, for 
she was accustomed to keep Madame la Roche in a state of 
mental subjection, and could not see without pity so futile an 
attempt at liberty, but not deigning to discuss the point, and 
pleased at the happy face of Fanny, she said with some lof¬ 
tiness : 

“Since the young man has shown a proper sense of his 
errors, he is welcome to my forgiveness.” 

Baptiste reddened, and was going to object to be forgiven, 
but the fingers of Fanny were laid on his lips, and his mouth 
was effectually stopped. 

“ I give my consent to his marriage with Fanny,” re¬ 
sumed Marie with great majesty, “ and I allow him to embrace 
me.” 

This permission Baptiste received with a suspicious look, 
as if he thought it part of the forgiveness, and Fanny had to 
frown and shake her head, and even to give a sly push behind, 
before the obstinate young giant would move a step toward the 
stately Marie. She beheld his hesitation with a benevolent 
smile, and as sovereigns see the awe and embarrassment their 
presence creates. Still smiling, she held up one cheek, then 
the other, and when the salute was over, she said blandly: 


SEVEN YEARS. 


61 


“ As to the wedding; do you not think, Baptiste, it will 
do very well this day three months V 5 

“ I suppose you mean six months,” said Charlotte, quietly. 
u I hope my god-daughter is not going to be so indecorous as 
to marry off in a hurry.” 

Baptiste did not answer; but he looked so sullen and so 
black, that Fanny, half frightened, slipped her arm within his, 
and gave him an appealing look, which cleared his face at once, 
and made him half smile. 

“Thank you, Marie, thank you, Charlotte,” he said phleg¬ 
matically, “but Fanny and I think a month long enough to 
wait.” 

“ Of course it is,” said Madame la Boche. “ No, Marie, 
no, Charlotte, you really must not oppose the poor children. 
Any one can see they will have no peace of mind till they are 
married.” 

A remark which, though innocently uttered, yet verged so 
much on indecorum, called for due reproof. Marie thought fit 
to take this task on herself, and set her simple mistress to 
rights. Ignoring, therefore, the imprudent words Madame la 
Roche had uttered, Marie said loftily: 

“In the meanwhile, Monsieur Watt, I shall suggest your 
seeing Fanny as little as possible. Decorum you know, Bap¬ 
tiste, decorum.” 

“ Aye to be sure, decorum,” put in Madame la Roche, who 
felt she had gone too far; “Fanny has not been reared like a 
common girl, Monsieur Watt. She is an orphan, and has been 
under my special care ever since she was three years old; and 
you see, Baptiste, it is precisely because you are to marry her 
that you ought to see her as little as possible.” 

Baptiste looked confounded, and Fanny mischievously 
demurred. 

“ And I even suggest,” put in Charlotte, “ that Baptiste 
should go to some little distance and keep out of the way.” 

“ That,” said Baptiste, coolly, “ is impossible. I must 
prepare a home for Fanny; but since you object to my seeing 
her, why I will not do so without your consent.” 

He bowed to Madame la Roche and to Charlotte and Marie, 
and, taking Fanny’s hand, he simply said : 

“ Good bye, Fanny; w T e shall soon meet.” He dropped 
her hand and turned away, leaving them all rather surprised 
at the quiet dignity of his manner. Fanny stood awhile irres¬ 
olute, then darted after him, and reached the door as he was 
opening it. 


62 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ You tiresome man,” she said petulantly; “ why do you 
mind them? do you not know that it shall be as I like, and 
not as they like ; and do you suppose I am not going to see 
you for a month ? ” 

But Baptiste shook his head, and sturdily resisted the 
temptation. 

“ One word, one man,” he said bravely, “ I shall see you 
when they like, Fanny.” And, not trusting himself with a 
look, he slowly and heavily walked down-stairs. 

“ He is very stupid! ” thought Fanny. “ When they like, 
and is not that when I like, Monsieur Baptiste ? ” 

u A very remarkable young man,” said Madame la Boche, 
to Marie, “ and a very strong will.” 

“ Trust Fanny for twisting him round her little finger,” 
knowingly said Marie. 

Fanny, who had returned, stood behind them: she over¬ 
heard Marie’s words, and smiled wistfully at the future. She 
did not seem to see Madame la Roche, or to think of going 
back to her work in that lady’s room. She stood like one in 
a dream, and Madame la Roche with her usual good nature 
kindly smiled, and saying, “ I shall not want you any more 
this evening, child,” she returned to the cheerful apartment 
where she had left her daughter. 

“ Was the book lost? ” asked Madame Dupuis. 

“ Ah! Cfccile, this is a strange world, and I cannot think 
what possesses men and women, to make it stranger. But 
they will love and be wretched, and marry too,—it is sur¬ 
prising.” 

“ Amazing! ” said Madame Dupuis, “ especially when 
j)eople are poor.” 

“ Fanny is not exactly poor,” began Madame la Roche. 

“Dear me,” interrupted Madame Dupuis, opening her 
languid eyes, “ is little Fanny in love; is she going to 
marry ? ” 

“ Yes, my dear, she actually is, and she is going to leave 
me, too.” And in the fulness of her heart Madame la Roche 
related to her daughter Fanny’s history. 

Madame Dupuis heard it with little interest. She was 
not unkind, she was very cold; her heart was heavy and dull, 
and she never thoroughly apprehended the troubles or con¬ 
cerns of others. She thought it strange that Fanny should be 
in love, and want to marry. 

“ But, my dear, you married,” objected her mother. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


63 


Madame Dupuis looked as if she thought that quite anoth¬ 
er sort of thing. 

“ And I married/’ pursued her mother, “ so I suppose it is 
the general lot.” 

But still Madame Dupuis thought it singular that Fanny 
should leave an agreeable and comfortable house like her 
mother’s for such a home as a working-man could offer. 

“ Perhaps there is no home like one’s own home after all,” 
sighed Madame la Roche. “ But I shall miss my little 
Fanny, ay, and sorely too.” 

Madame Dupuis said nothing, but she stared at her moth¬ 
er, whose eyes were dim, and she seemed to think this the 
strangest of all. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Paktly through pique, partly through pride, Fanny took 
no steps, that is to say, expressed no wish, to see Baptiste until 
the month was nearly out. Pie kept strictly to his word, and 
chose the middle of the day, when she was not within, to call 
on Charlotte and Marie, and settle with them matters relative 
to the approaching event. Thus he reopened his shop, set up 
once more his little stock, resumed his business, and prepared 
that dingy home for the presence of his bright and gay be¬ 
trothed. Fanny, whom he had deferentially consulted through 
the medium of her god-mother, replied by the same means, 
that he Avas to act as he pleased, and that she, Fanny, would 
be satisfied with whatever he did. 

“ I shall do my best,” replied Baptiste ; “ a man can do 
no more.” 

They thus reached, without meeting, the Thursday that 
preceded the Saturday on which they were to be married. To 
the great surprise of Marie, Fanny said to her in the morning: 

“ Marie, god-mother is too ill to accompany me, so you and 
I must go and spend this evening with Baptiste. Will you 
tell him so, if you please ? ” 

“ My dear child,” said Marie, solemnly, u you mean, I sup¬ 
pose, that we must ask Baptiste to come here. It would be 
better not to meet him till Saturday morning, but since you 
wish it, let it be.” 

“ No, Marie, not here. I wish to see him and the place 
too ; so please to tell him so.” 

Marie demurred, spoke of propriety and the world, and 


64 


SEVEN YEARS. 


delivered an excellent homily on decorum ; but Fanny was 
obstinate. 

“There is no impropriety in my going with you,” she said; 
“and as we have only the street to cross, it is very hard if we 
cannot do so without the world being apprised of it; besides, 
we shall only stay an hour or so; and, I tell you, I must see 
Baptiste, speak to him, and look at the house I am to live in.” 

“ Marie offered no further resistance ; she knew of old that 
when Fanny was determined on anything it must come to pass, 
and that to submit with a good grace to the will of this little 
despot was her best policy. Baptiste, accordingly, was warned 
of the honour he was to receive; he showed no extraordinary 
degree of elation, but enough of honest, substantial, hearty 
pleasure beamed in his honest blue eyes, to make Marie say 
kindly: 

“ Make no extraordinary preparations to receive us, Bap¬ 
tiste ; we are only paying you a flying visit.” 

“ I shall, do what is right,” said Baptiste, sturdily. 

The day was wet and dreary; night came early, and set 
dark and starless over the Marais. At a quarter past eight 
the street door of Madame la Roche’s house opened to let out 
Marie and Fanny. Muffled in heaps of cloaks and shawls, 
Marie had some trouble in moving ; Fanny, bare-headed, and 
with a light silk handkerchief on her shoulders, skipped across 
in a moment, and stood waiting on the tlfreshold of the shop 
for her slow companion. 

“ Good evening, Fanny,” said Baptiste, in a low moved 
voice ; “ this is kind of you.” 

“ And it would have been very kind of you, Monsieur Bap¬ 
tiste, to have come across and helped me over that abominable 
mud,” testily said Marie, entering the shop and-closing the 
door. 

“ You told me I was not to show myself,” said Baptiste, 
astonished. 

“ And pray who could see you on this black night ? some 
people are very tiresome ; they always take one at one’s 
word.” 

“ I am afraid you will always find me so,” said Baptiste 
slowly: “ when a person says a thing, I think that person 
means it.” 

He spoke to Marie and looked to Fanny, who stood smil¬ 
ing, casting furtive looks about the shop, and seeming pleased 
with its aspect. 

Baptiste’s honest face beamed with pleasure and pride, and 


SEVEN YEARS. 65 

throwing open the cloor of the back room, he said with some 
stateliness : 

“ Please to walk in, ladies.” 

“ Beally this is nice,” said Marie. 

Fanny said nothing, and Baptiste, who had expected some 
slight degree of praise, seemed disappointed. He closed the 
door, drew chairs round the fire, and sat down with a slightly 
clouded brow. 

Yet to one who had seen this room formerly, and who saw 
it now, Baptiste had done wonders. A bright paper, scat¬ 
tered with roses and jonquils, enlivened the dark walls. A 
marble slab had re-placed the wood of the mantel-piece. A 
handsome mirror above it, with a small gilt time-piece, and 
china vases for flowers—though no uncommon luxury in Paris, 
where every one has a clock and a looking-glass,—gave the 
place a gay look. The room, indeed, had not got any larger 
than it was formerly, but the new chairs, covered with bright 
red damask, Avere lighter and less cumbersome than the old 
ones; thin muslin curtains enclosed the bed in its recess, 
Avhere it looked lofty like a throne ; on the small round table, 
pushed on one side that the three might find room around the 
blazing wood fire, there was a tray covered with a white cloth, 
under which imagination might revel and conceive a world of 
dainties. Baptiste saw Fanny give it a stolen look, and he 
smiled, for he knew that his betrothed had a sweet tooth. 

“Well, Fanny,” he said, unable to keep in, “ what do you 
think of this nice little room to sit and work in, eh V’ 

“Where is the window?” asked Fanny, who knew that 
this room was lit from the shop, and almost as dark at noon¬ 
day as at night; but Baptiste smiled, rose, and pointing to a 
narrow curtained opening in the Avail, which the bed had con¬ 
cealed from Fannv’s vievv, he triumphantly said : 

“ There! ” 

“Yes,” he resumed, enjoying Fanny’s surprise, “I per¬ 
suaded the landlord to let me have it made. The look-out is 
not very gay, but Avlien the sun shines on the Avail opposite, it 
becomes quite cheerful.” 

“And the kitchen,” said Fanny, graA^ely; “I hope you 
have not forgotten that, Baptiste. This room is too pretty and 
nice to cook in.” 

Baptiste laughed, Avalked to the Avail, opened a cupboard, 
and displayed to Fanny, who did not knoAV Avhether to laugh 
or cry at the sight, a complete kitchen Avithin. A kitchen in a 
cupboard is one of those continental contrivances which be- 


66 


SEVEN YEARS. 


wilder an English imagination; but a kitchen in a cupboard 
is really a practicable thing, and better than no kitchen at all. 
Breast high, and in the centre, a space was devoted to the 
round receptacles for charcoal. fires, which do all the fine 
French cookery; how or where the smoke went Fanny could 
not see; hut around the range she saw hanging on nails the 
requisite number of pots and pans, and she could not but con¬ 
fess that nothing was wanted. It was a complete kitchen. 

“ Baptiste, how did you think of that V* she asked, when 
he closed the cupboard and resumed his seat by her side. 

“ I did not think of it,” replied Baptiste, with evident regret, 
“ it was my working-man, Joseph.” 

“ Never mind, you did it, and I am very much obliged to 
you all the same, Baptiste.” 

Here she looked again at the tray, and Baptiste, calling 
her a little “ friande,” rose once more, and handed round some 
hot punch and cakes. 

“ Very appropriate on this cold night,” said Marie, whose 
good humour was remarkable; “ you have a great deal of 
judgment, Monsieur Baptiste.” 

Baptiste smiled, and filled her glass twice for the once that 
he filled his and that of Fanny, who said it was strong, and 
made her head ache, and that she preferred the cakes and 
sweets. 

“Strong!” said Marie, amused, “child, this is ladies’ 
punch, quite harmless.” And she held out her glass and winked 
at Baptiste, who seemed slightly surprised, but dutifully re¬ 
plenished her tumbler. But, like many harmless people, this 
innocent punch had tricks of its own; Marie always averred 
that it v r as weak as water, yet scarcely had she taken this last 
glass, than her head dropped on her shoulder in a state of 
pleasant drowsiness, and her body sank back in the deep and 
warm arm-chair which Baptiste had borrowed from his shop 
for her use. 

“ Marie is sleepy,” said Fanny, with the self-possession 
women display in those cases. 

“Yes,” said Baptiste hesitatingly, “the heat of the fire, 
you see.” 

A long silence followed, during which the crackling of the 
wood on the. hearth and the calm snoring of Marie in her chair 
alone were heard. 

Fanny sat straight on her chair, with her hands folded on 
her lap, and her eyes fixed on the fire, and Baptiste sat look¬ 
ing at her, and feeling a great deal too happy to be quite 


SEVEN YEARS. 


67 


comfortable. When he saw the girl whom he had liked so long, 
and remembered that on the next day but one she would come 
and share this pleasant little home with him, his heart filled, 
and he could only sigh with pleasure. 

“ Fanny,” he said at length, “ I hope you will be happy.” 

Fanny looked up at him very earnestly, but did not answer 
one word. 

“ If I thought you would not,” resumed Baptiste, looking 
at the fire, “ it would make me wretched. I would rather 
give you up this moment than think, she will regret having 
married me.” 

“ I shall not regret it,” said Fanny, smiling quietly, “ why 
should I *? I feel very good this evening, Baptiste, and I am 
sure you will help me to be good; you will have patience with 
me'; you will not take a hasty word for more than it means.” 

“No,” said Baptiste. 

“ Why should we not be happy*?” she added after a while. 
“ We are both young—I am scarcely eighteen, you are not 
twenty-five. We have the world, work, some money, and 
kind friends before us. Why should we not be happy*?” 

She spoke gravely, and looked at him with unwonted 
seriousness. Baptiste hesitated, then gave a look at Marie, 
and said: 

“Fanny, you have never fairly told me that you really 
liked me. Tell me so now.” 

“I shall have to say it after to-morrow,” said Fanny; 
“ once is enough.” 

Baptiste looked disappointed. 

“What ails you*?” asked Fanny, frowning; “am I a girl 
to do what I do not like doing *? I have agreed to marry you ; 
is not that enough *? ought you not to be satisfied *?”— 

“ Perhaps I ought; but you speak so lightly, so coldly, 
always in jest.” 

Fanny laughed and looked mischievous. 

“ If you go on so I shall get naughty,” she said; “ I must 
tell you how to manage me once for all, Baptiste,” she added 
confidentially. “ You must not love me like the apple of your 
eye, spoil me a good deal, and rule me like a little child,—I 
am not fit to have mv own will, that is the truth.” 

Baptiste looked bewildered, then rueful. 

“ I shall never be able to manage that,” he said; “ rule you 
like a little child, but how*?” 

“As if I were to tell you!” cried Fanny, looking vexed, “ I 
never heard anything like it.” 


68 


SEVEN YEAES. 


“ And you will never get tliat from me,” said Baptiste, with 
a sad shake of the head. “ I can love a woman honestly and 
faithfully, and love none but her.” 

Fanny stamped her foot. 

Indeed,” she said, “ well, you had better love some one 
else. I warn you, I am dreadfully jealous.” 

“ Are you ? ” phlegmatically replied Baptiste. “ But I can¬ 
not rule a woman,” he added, calmly continuing his former 
speech. “No, Fanny, I must respect my wife, and if she is a 
child, how can I respect her ?” 

“ Oh! that will never do,” exclaimed Fanny, “ I tell you I 
have been spoiled and petted, and if you treat me so grandly, 
I shall feel dull.” 

Baptiste looked thoroughly disconcerted. 

Fanny spoke his secret fears: she would be dull with him. 
And, what was worse, he knew not, even remotely, how to 
keep this gay young girl in joy and good humour. The mix¬ 
ture of fondness, teaching, and authority which Fanny herself 
held requisite for their mutual happiness, Baptiste could not 
practise. He could only love and honour like any knight of 
old. 

Fanny saw his troubled looks, and was sorry. She rose 
from her chair, she went up to his, and standing by him with 
friendly grace, she said cheerfully : 

“ Do not be afraid, Baptiste, we shall not be able to help 
being happy. I feel sure of that. As I said a while ago, we 
have some money, kind friends, work to do, and the world 
before us. What more is Avanted ?” 

Baptiste could have said that he wanted Fanny to love him 
as he loved her,—with a love deep set and beyond the reach 
of change ; but where was the use? This cheerful, light little 
girl liked him as well as she could like. She would not be¬ 
come a different woman just because they were going to be 
married the next day but one. He folded his arms with a 
sigh and looked up at her; there she stood by him, pretty, 
gay, beaming, an image of graceful cheerfulness, but looking 
as light as a feather. 

“ I must marry her after to-morrow,” thought Baptiste, 
with a sort of calm despair, “ not merely because I am bound 
to her, but because I cannot do without her, and yet I shall be 
wretched and she will not be happy. I shall spend money 
and waste time to please her fancy, and get a jest and a laugh, 
or a yawn of ennui, for my pains; and yet I must do it with 


SEVEN YEARS. 


69 


my eyes open, just as I came back and bought myself out at 
her bidding.” 

“ What ails you ? what are you thinking of ? ” asked Fanny, 
displeased at his gloomy looks and at his silence. 

“ Of you,” he replied calmly. 

“ Then you might look more amiable,” she said shortly, and 
she walked back to her chair looking vexed. 

“ What o’clock is it? ” asked Marie, wakening up with a 
start. “Eleven! Fanny, are you dreaming? we were to be in 
at ten. Monsieur Baptiste, there is magic in that chair; it 
made me fall asleep, it positively did. Fanny, put on my 
shawl.” 

She had risen: Fanny rose too, and wrapped Marie in the 
shawls and cloaks which she had held indispensable to the 
preservation of her health. Baptiste silently assisted in the 
task, and, scarcely speaking, saw them out; but he was of a 
taciturn temper, and not accustomed to many words. Marie 
saw nothing in his silence, especially as his adieu had all the 
requisite cordiality. 

“You may embrace me,” kindly said Marie as they parted, 
“ and Fanny, too, I allow it.” Baptiste had already complied 
with the first part of this precept, he now turned to Fanny 
with some hesitation. He took her in his arms, and stooping, 
for though not unusually short, she looked a mite near him, 
he kissed her with a sigh. 

“Good night, my dear little Fanny,” he said fondly; 
“like me at least as much as you can.” 

“ If you wish for it do not ask for it,” saucily said Fanny; 
“you know I am possessed with the spirit of contradiction. 
Good night, Baptiste.” 

And with a nod half friendly, half careless, she left him 
standing on the door-step looking after her in the dark night, 
and thinking bitterly : “ that girl will drive me mad, I know 
she will.” 

The street was quickly crossed; a knock at the street 
door without and a pull at the porter’s cordon within, soon 
brought Marie and Fanny within Madame la Boche’s house. 
The lodge was dark, for the concierge had retired to her bed. 
but her wrinkled face, peering through the frill of a night 
cap, appeared behind the panes of the glass door. 

“ Who is there ? ” asked her shrill voice. 

“ Hear me, Madame, you might put on your spectacles and 
look,” loftily replied Marie, between whom and this dignitary 


70 


SEVEN YE AES. 


there existed a constant feud, and whose natural irascibility 
the punch might have heightened. 

“ There is no need for that, Madame,” replied the lady of 
the lodge, with much dignity; “ no one who hears you need 
look at you in order to identify you.” 

“ Madame,” began Marie, turning pale with wrath. 

“Madame,” interrupted Madame Grand, “we will have 
no discussion, if you please. I am sleepy, it would moreover 
disturb the house, which is, I thank Heaven, a quiet one ; but 
I shall feel very much obliged to you if you will take up this 
letter to your mistress. It came as I was going to bed, and I 
could not of course take it up-stairs. 

She held forth a letter, which Fanny took, for Marie would 
have seen her hand burned before she would have stooped to 
an act of so much meanness, and put an end to the conversa¬ 
tion by closing her glass door and retiring to the privacy of 
her sleeping apartment, viz., an alcove or recess in the lodge. 

“ Mark my words, Fanny,” said Marie, darting a wrath¬ 
ful look at the dark glass door, behind which her enemy had 
retreated, “ mark my words, that woman will not end well.” 

There is no denying that, on hearing a prediction which 
might apply to a scapegrace of fifteen, but was scarcely suited 
to three-score, the lady of the lodge longed to come forth and 
resume the battle, but dignity and prudence alike kept her 
where she was—in bed, and satisfied with this easy victory, 
Marie went up-stairs once more elate. 

The staircase, like all French staircases, was lit with a 
lamp, hung midway in the spiral hollow, that went from the 
top to the bottom of the house. A sort of half gloom was the 
result. But in addition to the imperfect light thus diffused, 
another lamp, fixed to the wall close by the door of Madame 
la Boche, shed its glow on her landing. It was there, and 
just as the door had closed upon him, that Marie and Fanny 
met Monsieur Noiret. They thus enjoyed a good view of his 
active figure, and Monsieur Noiret likewise had the advan¬ 
tage of recognizing .Marie’s portly person and Fanny’s pretty 
face. 

“ Good evening, Marie,” he said blandly, “ we are old 
friends, eh? Good evening, little Fanny, you are going to 
get married, I hear.” 

“Yes, sir, I am,” shortly replied Fanny, with whom 
Monsieur Noiret was no favourite. 

“Yes, sir, we are old friends,” said Marie; “old friends 


SEVEN YEARS. 71 

in years of our own, sir, and in the time we have known each 
other, sir.” 

“Precisely,” replied Monsieur Noiret, showing his teeth 
again. “Good evening, Marie; good night little Fanny.” 

He pinched her cheek, nodded to them both, and went 
down humming a tune. 

“ A pleasant gentlemen thirty-three years ago,” said 
Marie, with a sigh ; “ ah, child, if I had liked ! ” 

She shook her head and sighed again as they entered. 

“ If I had liked,” she pursued, “ I might have been 
Madame Noiret. I might, indeed, and then no low creatures 
in lodges would have had their say at me.” 

Fanny did not reply, she entered her room, sat down on a 
chair, and burst into tears. 

“ Bless me,” cried Marie, “ you do not mind that low 
creature ? ” 

“ Oh ! Marie,” said Fanny, sobbing, “ I am wretched.” 

“ Never mind her, child.” 

“ Oh ! I do not; it is Baptiste. I feel and I see it, we 
shall not be happy together : I am sure of it.” 

And her tears flowed afresh. Marie stared and asked 
what she meant. 

“ He likes me too much,” said Fanny. “ I like him very 
much to be sure; but not so much as he likes me; he sees it, 
it exasperates him, and it already bores me. What will it 
be when we are married ? ” 

“ My dear,” said Marie, much relieved, “ do not trouble 
yourself about that. I never heard wives complaining that 
their husbands teased them by too much love.” 

“ Baptiste will always be fond of me,” said Fanny, red¬ 
dening. 

“ Yes, dear, but not more than you will like,” pacifically 
replied Marie; “ give me Madame la Roche’s letter, and do 
not trouble yourself about Baptiste’s excessive love. It will 
calm dow r n, my dear, it will calm down.” 

Fanny looked very vexed, but did not answer one word. 
Marie took the letter and left the room. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A door had formerly led from the bed-room of Madame 
la Roche to that of Fanny; as both rooms were accessible by 
either doors, that one had been suppressed, that is to say, a 


72 


SEVEN YEARS. 


chest of drawers had been placed against it on Fanny’s side ; 
on Madame la Roche’s it remained visible, though unused : 
but that door, it is scarcely necessary to say, could not 
exclude sound, and Fanny, as she sat alone, fretting at Bap¬ 
tiste’s over fondness, and vexed at the mere thought that this 
troublesome affection might grow less, could not help hearing 
the discourse between Madame la Roche and Marie in the 
next room. 

“ Marie, where have you been? ” asked the lady’s voice ; 
to which Marie’s sturdy tones replied : 

“ Only at Baptiste’s, Madame.” 

There was a pause before the voice of Madame la Roche 
was heard again. 

“ Was Fanny with you ? ” x 

“ Of course, Madame. Is this the nightcap Madame 
means to wear ? ” 

“ Marie, I am very much surprised. I thought it was 
agreed the young man was to be kept at a distance ? ” 

“ Fanny wished it, Madame.” 

“ I do not say there was any harm in it; but I think, 
Marie, it would have been respectful to tell me about it.” 

“ And not to stay out till eleven, without leave,” put in 
the voice of Madame Dupuis. 

“No one is any thing in this house,” observed the voice 
of Charlotte. “ My own god-daughter is not mine; but I 
have always been used so, and I will never believe that if 
Monica had not been advised to it she would have gone off to 
America.” 

“ May I ask what Monica has to do with my taking Fanny 
over to Baptiste’s this evening ? ” calmly inquired Marie, with 
whom this referring of Charlotte’s to something or other that 
had nothing to do with the matter in hand, was a constant and 
irritating grievance. Charlotte was opening her lips to an¬ 
swer, and war was imminent, when Madame Dupuis again 
said: 

“ l wonder you went out without leave, Marie.” 

This second interference of her mistress’s daughter prob¬ 
ably irritated Marie, for in anything but a pleasant voice she 
observed, “ that she did not know she had two mistresses.” 

“ Marie, you are very rude,” said Madame la Roche, “ I 
beg you will not answer my daughter so.” 

“ I always spoke my mind to Mademoiselle Cecile when 
she was a child,” put in Marie, with great spirit, “ and I can¬ 
not leave off now.” 


SEVEN TEARS. 


73 


(i I know you are an attached friend, more than a servant,” 
said Madame la Roche, “ but, still, Marie, you are too rude. 
The world has seen and commented on it. It is my duty to 
put a stop to it.” 

“ Maman has been a great deal too indulgent,” put in 
Madame Dupuis. 

“ Cecile, do not interfere. I am quite able to direct my 
own servants. Yes, Marie, I must put a stop to it. You talk 
too loud ; moreover, you are always quarrelling with the por¬ 
tress, Madame Grand, a thing I have the greatest objection 
to. What were you and she saying this evening'? Cecile 
and I actually heard the noise up here.” 

“ I know Madame always takes the portress’s part,” indig¬ 
nantly said Marie ; u but I did not expect to be turned upon 
this evening, because, as Fanny knows and can say, I resented 
that Madame the portress should give me a letter to carry, 
which it is her bounden duty to deliver to the mistress of the 
v house.” 

“ A letter ! dear me, Marie, how very odd you should 
keep it all this time, and stand talking there. Who knows 
but it is of importance ! Give it to me. Just look at it 
Cecile, and tell me what it is. You may read it aloud. I 
have no secrets from Marie and Charlotte.” 

“ It is from a Monsieur Dauray,” said the voice of Mad¬ 
ame Dupuis. 

“ I know no one of the name ; go on, my dear.” 

Madame Dupuis read : 

“ Madame, 

“ I have not the honour of being acquainted with you, and 
yet I must wound your heart with the most painful news. I 
keep the inn of the Lion d’Argent, in the town of Laval. A 
gentleman, a stranger, came here yesterday, and took the 
room number one. This morning we found him dying in his 
room ; he had committed suicide; at least we think so, from 
the only words we heard him utter : ‘ I am a ruined and dis¬ 
honoured man,—I will not live dishonoured.’ That gentle¬ 
man, Madame, I write it with sorrow, is Monsieur Dupuis, 
your son-in-law.” 

Here Fanny, who had been listening, with sudden anxiety 
heard a fearful scream, and a heavy fall on the floor. 

Scarcely knowing how, Fanny rushed out of her room 
into that of Madame la Roche, and there beheld a picture she 
never forgot. Madame la Roche stood in her white night¬ 
dress, looking more amazed than horrified ; Madame Dupuis 
4 


74 


SEVEN YEARS. 


lay on the floor at her mother’s feet, and a dark stream of 
blood was pouring from her lips down on the letter which 
she still held; Marie stood in the act and attitude in which 
the news had found her,—holding with one uplifted hand a 
decanter of water, and a glass in the other; Charlotte sat and 
stared, and the lamp burned calmly, and the fire blazed cheer¬ 
fully, on this scene of woe. The white frightened face of 
Fanny at the door broke the spell that petrified them ; Mad¬ 
ame la Roche groaned and fainted; Marie dropped decanter 
and glass with a crash, and rushed forward in time to catch 
her mistress; Fanny knelt on the carpet, and tried to raise 
the head of Madame Dupuis, and to stop the blood that still 
flowed from her white lips, though more slowly. 

“ What shall we do ] What shall we do ? ” cried Marie 
distracted; “ Madame is as cold as a stone, I cannot rouse her 
a bit. Help me, Charlotte.” 

But Charlotte did not stir. She seemed paralyzed and 
groaned on her chair. 

“ Marie,” said Fanny, in a low strange voice, c ‘ can you 
carry Madame into my room ? if you can, do so, and do not 
be in a hurry to waken her.” 

Marie turned round from her senseless mistress, and 
stared at Fanny, who merely said, “ Look.” 

The pale head of Madame Dupuis still rested against the 
young girl’s lap ; her eyes were open, but her features were 
white and rigid as marble. 

“ Dead ! ” said Marie, bewildered. 

“ Dead ! ” screamed Charlotte, suddenly springing to her 
foster-daughter’s side. 

“ Ay, dead—dead! ” echoed Fanny, clasping her hands, 
“ dead in a moment.” 

Ay, Fanny, dead in a moment; called from all the little 
follies of life to grief, and from grief to death. Take the les¬ 
son to heart, and keep it there ! 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Baptiste was not superstitious; but happy dreams influ¬ 
ence the waking moods of the wisest, and his dreams that 
night were of so rosy a hue, that he must needs be cheerful 
the next morning. He got up early, opened his shop, took 
down the shutters, and looked up with a smile at Fanny’s 
window. Her curtains moved slightly ; he did not see her, 


SEVEN YEARS. 75 

indeed, but he felt sure that she was slyly watching him. 
Baptiste shook his head. 

“ That girl will give me a world of trouble,” he thought, 
“ but a world of joy too—that is the truth.” 

And he began stuffing a sofa with horse-hair, and singing 
as he worked : an unusual token of cheerfulness. 

“ The master is merry to-day,” said Joseph, his working¬ 
man, who walked in as he spoke. 

“ A man can well be merry when he is going to marry a 
pretty girl the morrow,” replied Baptiste with a knowing nod, 
“ you will find that out yet, Joseph.” 

Joseph shrugged his shoulders, and said he was too poor 
to marry. His master slapped him on the back, and said 
kindly : 

“Work, Joseph; do not drink; work, and I will help 
you, and you will put money by; and if in two years’ time 
you cannot marry, my name is not Baptiste Watt.” 

“Will the master get me a wife like Mademoiselle 
Fanny 1 ? ” asked Joseph, demurely. 

Baptiste laughed till his blue eyes shone. 

“ Get you a girl like Fanny, ah ! my lad, girls like that 
are not got every day. Every day ! / never saw another 

like her.” 

“ Nor I,” sighed Joseph, with mock envy. He thought 
Fanny a pretty girl, but he thought, too, that there were 
plenty twice as handsome everywhere around him. 

“ The fact is,” pursued Baptiste, sitting dowm, and looking 
meditative, “ that Fanny deserves a better match than Bap¬ 
tiste Watt; but human nature is selfish, and I cannot help 
being selfish and taking her. It is human nature, Joseph, 
human nature.” 

Joseph philosophically replied that it was, and set to work. 
But though Baptiste felt thoroughly happy, he could not 
work : he was haunted with a vision of Fanny in the white 
silk dress which Madame la Roche had kindly provided, and 
to which Madame Dupuis had added the tulle veil and orange 
wreath. Marie had let him into a secret: at seven, before 
going to her work, Fanny was to try on this bridal attire; 
and-she, Marie, had added, “ that she would do what she could 
for him,”—which meant, Baptiste supposed, that she would 
kindly procure him a sight of his beloved, if he v'ould only 
be in the way ; now it was just upon seven, and Baptiste was 
longing to go, and hesitating to do so. “ The little thing will 
only laugh at me,” he thought, with a deep sigh ; “ let her,— 


76 


SEVEN YEAES. 


I cannot help it.” And giving Joseph a few orders, he rose, 
left the shop, crossed the street, entered the house of Madame 
la Roche, for the wide gate stood ever open, and, without be¬ 
ing seen by the portress, he went up to the first-floor by a 
back staircase. He rang, expecting Marie to open ; it was 
Fanny who came. On seeing him she burst into tears, and 
flung her arms round his neck. Baptiste turned pale, he knew 
that something dreadful had happened, and swift and sudden 
came the thought: “ I shall not marry Fanny to-morrow.” 
He closed the door, which had remained open; he drew 
Fanny to his breast, and hissed her again and again; and 
Fanny, her shyness and her coquetry all gone with grief, kept 
her arms around him, and laid her head on his shoulder, where 
she sobbed freely. At length she became more calm and 
looked up. Baptiste had taken her into that quiet dining-room 
where he had found her that day month. He had sat down, 
and still holding her fast, he looked with an aching heart at a 
white dress covered with muslin, lightly thrown on a chair, 
and an orange wreath near it; Marie had placed them there 
for five minutes on the preceding evening, and forgotten them 
in the sudden calamities of the night. 

“ Oh! Fanny, my darling little Fanny,” said Baptiste 
with a groan, “ what is it ? what has happened 1 ” 

“ Then you do not know % ” asked Fanny. 

“ I know nothing,” said Baptiste, with another groan ; “ I 
left my work, I crossed the street to see you with those pretty 
white things on.” 

“ Poor fellow,” said Fanny, softly stroking his cheek and 
crying again ; “ poor fellow; it is not a wedding we shall 
have to-morrow, Baptiste, but a funeral,—Madame Dupuis is 
dead.” 

“ Dead ! Fanny, dead ! ” 

“ Ay, dead, killed by grief.” She told him the whole 
story in a few words. 

A third groan expressed Baptiste’s feelings. 

“ Fanny,” he said at length, “ I am a wretch ; God knows I 
am sorry for the poor lady, for the child, for the mother ; but 
still, Fanny, I cannot help thinking too that I shall not have 
you to-morrow. Ah ! why were we not married a week ago ? 
Well, well, it is of little use to think of that now. What can 
I do for them, Fanny % ” 

“ Nothing, Baptiste. We have sent for Monsieur Noiret, 
that old friend of Madame la Roche’s, you know; he will see 
to the funeral.” 


SEVEN YEARS. 


77 


Baptiste groaned again, and asked to see Marie. 

“ You cannot see her,” replied Fanny, shaking her head, 
“ she is with Madame la Roche, who, poor lady, has spent the 
night in tears and sorrow ; hut if you w ill come in to my 
god-mother, I dare say she will like to see you.” 

She rose and led the w r ay to her god-mother’s room. 

Charlotte w r as up, sitting in an arm-chair, and looking 
with a bewildered glance on the little orphan, who was play¬ 
ing merrily at her feet. 

“ Papa is gone,” he w r as singing; “ he is gone. He will 
not come back ; he will not come back.” 

“Well, Monsieur Baptiste,” said Charlotte, looking at 
him, and groaning, “ you see what life is,—death without 
warning, children singing above their fathers’ graves. I hope 
and trust that you will have the wisdom to give up all the 
vanities of life.” 

“ If by the vanities of life you mean Fanny,” said Baptiste, 
drawing the young girl’s arm within his, “ I declare that noth¬ 
ing shall make me give her up.” 

“ I wonder at you ! ” querulously said Charlotte. “ Heath 
is in the house, and you must needs talk nonsense; 1 wonder 
at you. Charles, be quiet.” 

“ Can I be of any use to you ? ” asked Baptiste. 

Charlotte sighed. 

“ 1 am broken with pains,” she answ r ered, “ if you have an 
easier chair than this 1 should like it; if not, do not mind. 
Anything will do for me.” 

Baptiste w r as surprised at a request, which to him savoured 
of the vanities of life, but he said it should be complied with ; 
and perceiving that his presence was not required, and w r as 
more likely to lead to disturbance than to be of use, he bade 
Charlotte good morning and retired. Fanny saw r him out. 
As they parted, Baptiste said with a heavy sigh: 

“ Fanny, I know I am wretch to speak of it, but you must 
promise to marry me at least this day three months.” 

“ No, Baptiste, I cannot do that; but I will promise to 
marry you when you like, for I know that you will like noth¬ 
ing which is not right.” 

Still Baptiste looked unhappy, and ill at ease. Fanny 
took both his large heavy hands in her own, and looking up 
at him, said simply : 

“ Baptiste, perhaps I ought not to speak of that now either ; 
but like you I feel that I must. I know I grieved you last 
night; I know you thought me light and too careless; per- 


78 


SEVEN YEAES. 


haps I was; perhaps I even grumbled at your over-fondness 
for me. Ah ! Baptiste, when death and sorrow fell so heavily 
around me, when I knelt on the' floor, with the head of the 
poor dying lady on my lap, my thought flew to you, and I 
felt it was a good thing to be so much, so fondly loved by a 
good man.” 

Never before had Fanny spoken so kindly. Baptiste 
looked down at her much moved, and from his disappoint¬ 
ments drew comfort. “ She has a good little heart,” he 
thought, “ and I was a fool not to see it.” 

“ Go now,” said Fanny, rather sadly ; “ if you stay people 
will say that we make love whilst the house is in mourning.” 

“ Are you sure you do not want me, Fanny ? ” 

“ Quite sure.” 

Thus dismissed, Baptiste left, sighing, as he went down the 
staircase, the old proverb, “ Man proposes, God disposes,” 
which applied wonderfully to his present case. 

As he passed by the lodge, Madame Grand put out her 
dry withered face and beckoned him in. 

“Well, Monsieur Watt,” she said mysteriously, “you 
know the news. Sad, eh'? sad,—very. And when do you 
get married ? ” 

“ This is no time to talk of weddings,” coldly answered 
Baptiste. 

Madame Grand peered in his face and nodded. 

“ A shrewd man ! ” she said, “ a shrewd man. Yes, Mon¬ 
sieur Watt, you do well to mind what you are about. I smell 
changes, Monsieur Watt; I smell changes, and so do you. 
A word to the wise,” and she nodded and winked at poor 
Baptiste, who stared and walked away without having appre¬ 
hended her meaning. 

“ Ay, ay,” soliloquized Madame Grand, when he was gone, 
“ he will never marry that saucy little Fanny who took the 
letter from me last night, and never so much as looked at me : 
the little monkey ! We shall see what sort of a figure big 
Marie will cut now. I am sorry for the old lady, but she is 
a simpleton, and if people will be simple, why they must bear 
the consequences, that is all.” 


CHARTER XY. 


The funeral was over, and Madame la Koche was sitting 
in her room, listening vaguely to Monsieur Noiret. That 


SEVEN YEARS. 


79 


gentleman had made some sad discoveries : he had found that 
Madame la Roche’s fortune was placed under the control of 
her son-in-law, but what the unfortunate man had done with 
it, whether he had gambled or squandered it away, as well 
as his own, Monsieur Noiret could not discover. One thing 
he saw plainly,—the money had vanished, and Madame la 
Roche was literally left destitute. Monsieur Noiret had just 
been imparting the painful news with as much caution as he 
thought required to prevent hysterics or a fainting fit, and he 
was expecting a burst of tears at the Very least, when, to his 
great surprise, Madame la Roche, whose grief, like her temper, 
w r as composed and meek, calmly contradicted him. 

“ No, no, Monsieur Noiret,” she said with a sigh, “ it is 
all a mistake, depend upon it. I have indeed suffered a severe 
calamity ; I have lost my dear child and her husband, but the 
money is all right enough. Would to Heaven the unhappy 
man had trusted to me, and asked me for some of that worth¬ 
less money, which cannot give me back my poor daughter.” 

Monsieur Noiret coughed behind his hand, and looked con¬ 
siderably puzzled. He was not at all so sure as Madame la 
Roche that she had so much of that worthless money to spare 
as she fancied, but how to convince her of this melancholy 
truth did not seem easy. 

Monsieur Noiret stroked his chin, thought a while, and, 
without attempting to argue the case with Madame la Roche, 
he said simply: 

“ May I ask, my dear Madame, how your fortune is in¬ 
vested % ” 

“ Oh ! dear yes, Monsieur Noiret, I have no secrets from 
you. The best part of my money is in the three per cents ; 
the rest in railway shares. Altogether five hundred thousand 
francs.” 

“ Capital! ” said Monsieur Noiret. 

“ Oh ! capital, of course. Ah ! the money is safe enough, 
and if I only had my poor dear child—” a burst of tears con¬ 
cluded the sentence. 

“ Shares and papers of the kind are valuable things,” said 
M. Noiret. “ I have no doubt you kept yours very safely. 
May I ask to see them % ” 

“ Monsieur Dupuis, my poor son-in-law, had them,” said 
Madame la Roche, with a sigh. “ 1 gave them to him to keep 
and manage for me.” 

“ They must be lost then,” said M. Noiret, “ for they have 
not been found amongst his papers.” 


4 


80 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ Lost! ” said Madame la Roche, “ but they are mine.” 

“Were,” suggested M. Noiret. “Now, unfortunately, 
they are the property of some other person.” 

She stared at him in amazement, but with a dim revelation 
of the calamity she had refused to believe in. Gently but 
firmly he pursued his advantage, and by going over and over 
again the same ground, he convinced Madame la Roche that 
she was a poor and destitute woman. She burst into tears 
and clasped her hands. 

“ The poor child,” she cried, “ the poor child. It does not 
matter for me, I am an old woman, but the poor child ! ” 

Monsieur Noiret administered the comfort usual in such 
cases. He spoke of Providence, and held out delusive visions 
of helping friends, and some unknown good that was to turn 
up, until Madame la Roche was pretty well pacified, after 
which he said thoughtfully : 

“ I am sorry though this house is not yours.” 

“ What! ” exclaimed Madame la Roche, astounded. 

“ Yes,” he resumed, “ it is disagreeable, it is unpleasant; 
but you know you became security for Monsieur Dupuis six 
months ago ; a mere matter of form, as we then thought, but 
a very serious matter it turns out now. He has left debts, 
and of course his creditors will come down upon you. I am 
very sorry, I really am; but patience is the best remedy.” 

This was the merest fiction; patience was no remedy at 
all in the present case: but Madame la Roche did not think 
of that. She stared at Monsieur Noiret in mingled amaze and 
incredulity. She had signed some paper or other, to be sure, 
but that she had thus alienated her ancestral property, that 
she had only left herself the bed she slept on and the clothes 
she wore, seemed too much for belief. Monsieur Noiret’s 
task was neither gracious nor jdeasing, but he conscientiously 
persevered in it, and Madame la Roche was convinced. She 
cast a dreary look around her luxurious and comfortable home, 
then she hung her head and said in a low voice: 

“ 1 thought to die here ; but the will of God be done.” 

Again Monsieur Noiret spoke words of comfort, but this 
time Madame la Roche could not heed him. 

“ My poor servants ! ” she ejaculated. “ You must tell 
them, Monsieur Noiret, I have not the heart. They were all 
to be pensioned off at my death. God help them, poor 
souls.” 

“ Very unpleasant, certainly,” said Monsieur Noiret, as 
he rang the bell. It was Fanny who answered it. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


81 


“ My dear,” said Monsieur Noiret, “ will you be kind 
enough to call the servants together, and bring them here 1 ? 
Madame la Roche has a communication to make to them.” 

Fanny bent her head in token of acquiescence and van¬ 
ished. In a few minutes the door opened again, and the little 
household of Madame la Roche appeared. Charlotte and 
Marie stood foremost; behind them stood the cook and coach¬ 
man, who had only been ten years in the family, and were 
still held new-comers. Fanny remained a little apart, hold¬ 
ing Charles by the hand. 

Monsieur Noiret took a pinch of snuff, smiled a good- 
humoured smile, and said cheerfully : 

“ Well, my friends, life is made up of ups and downs, as 
we all know. You are aware that a sad calamity has befallen 
your excellent mistress,—she has lost money, and much more 
than money. I dare say I need scarcely tell you that her 
household must be broken up. Indeed, Madame la Roche 
leaves this house for a home too narrow to receive her and 
you.” 

4/ _ 

The cook burst into tears, and sank in the arms of the 
coachman, who seemed considerably affected, and muttered 
something about not minding some wages owing. But Mon¬ 
sieur Noiret at once waved his hand, and deprecated any such 
offer. 

“ Thanks, thanks,” he said, “ but there is no need for that. 
Madame la Roche merely wished me to inform you that she 
could keep you no longer.” 

“ And does Madame mean to say that I am going to leave 
her ? ” said Marie, wrathfully, nodding her cap at Monsieur 
Noiret, and for once forgetting that they were old friends. 
“ Why, what would she do without me 1 she is no more fit to 
take care of herself than a baby.” 

Before Monsieur Noiret could reply, Charlotte had calmly 
observed: 

“ Of course nothing that has been said concerns me. I have 
been forty-five years with Madame, and it is absurd to sup¬ 
pose I could leave her.” 

The cook, who had partly recovered her first emotion, was 
likewise going to enter a protest against leaving Madame, and 
would no doubt have found excellent arguments to prove that 
Madame la Roche could not possibly do without her, when 
Fanny quietly stepped across the floor, and going up to 
Madame la Roche, who sat mute and pale in her chair, she 
said gently : 


82 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ Dear Madame, you cannot remain alone, it is out of the 
question. You want us to take care of you and little Charles; 
indeed you do, and we will stay with you.” 

“ My dear,” began Madame la Roche, “ my money—” 

“ I will earn money for you, and Marie, and Charlotte, and 
the boy there,” said Fanny cheerfully ; “ and I do not care 
what happens—I will never leave you.” 

She spoke with an earnestness that flushed her cheek and 
lit her eyes. It was the beautiful story, for ever young and 
true, of faithful human love, stronger than calamity or grief. 
It was Ruth saying again to Naomi,—“ Thy people shall be 
my people, and thy God shall be my God.” 

Madame la Roche looked at the faithful girl, at the orphan 
child, at the two old servants, whose savings, she remembered 
it now, had been swallowed up with her handsome fortune, 
and she wrung her hands in sore distress. With a keenness 
of vision to which long prosperity had not used her, she saw 
the melancholy future before her, and in that future—brief 
though her years must necessarily make it—Fanny, worn with 
ceaseless toil, and consuming youth, beauty, and love, in a 
self-appointed task ! Madame la Roche did not speak, but 
groaned and clasped her hands. 

“ My good friends,” said Monsieur Noiret, waving his 
hand, “ your mistress, as you see, is considerably affected ; be 
so kind as to withdraw and leave me with her, she and I have 
much to discuss together.” 

This was a fiction ; Monsieur Noiret had little or nothing 
more to say to Madame la Roche, but the assertion produced 
the desired effect; the cook and coachman withdrew first; 
Marie and Charlotte followed, and Fanny closed the door, and 
left Monsieur Noiret and Madame la Roche once more alone. 

Their discourse was brief. A few words of curt and com¬ 
mon-place consolation passed Monsieur Noiret’s lips, then he 
rose, bade Madame la Roche a good afternoon, and left her so 
crushed by the unexpected misfortune it had been his un¬ 
pleasant task to reveal, that she allowed him to depart without 
seeing him to the door, or summoning a servant to open it for 
him. 

The omission was supplied by Fanny, who sat in the din¬ 
ing-room, with her arm passed around the neck of Charles, 
for whose amusement she had taken a book of engravings 
from the library, and which he now looked at as it lay open 
on her lap. 

On hearing Monsieur Noiret’s step Fanny looked up, and 


SEVEN YEARS. 


83 


perceiving that he was alone, she wanted to rise and open the 
door for him, but Monsieur Noiret would not allow it. 

“ Go on and amuse the child, my dear,” he said, “ it makes 
a charming picture,” and he looked rather hard at Fanny, on 
whose cheek the flush of recent emotion still lingered. 

“ My dear,” said he, resting his hand on the back of her 
chair, “ I have known you long. Allow me to ask if you are 
aware of the pledge you have given to Madame la Roche, who, 
poor thing, wishes for no such sacrifice from you. I under¬ 
stand you were going to marry, too: pray how will you 
manage that now 1 No one can serve two masters. You 
cannot belong to Madame la Roche and this little fellow,” he 
added, touching the child’s fair head, “ and belong also to 
your betrothed.” 

“ Baptiste would not wish me to be ungrateful,” said 
Fanny. 

“ My dear, a man wants the woman he likes for himself,” 
was Monsieur Noiret’s answer. 

The young girl seemed much moved; perhaps she had 
not yet thought of that; her lids fell; her lips quivered. 

“ God will provide,” she said at length. 

“ Very pious and proper,” said Monsieur Noiret, smiling; 
“ well, my dear, I do not disapprove; I only wished to know 
if you had reflected on the consequences of your offer. I see 
you have. I wish you joy. Good afternoon.” 

Fanny rose mechanically, and saw Monsieur Noiret to the 
door. When she came back, Charles was as eager as ever 
about the picture-book, but Fanny heard him with an abstracted 
glance and thoughts far away. For the first time she felt the 
burden heavy and unforeseen that was falling on a youth 
hitherto so smiling and so fair. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

\ 

Within a few days blue bills were placarded all over the 
front of number two, advertising it for sale by auction. It 
was soon disposed of, and to such advantage, that the proceeds 
of the sale more than covered the sum for which Madame la 
Roche had rendered herself liable. Her furniture remained 
her own, an unexpected piece of good fortune, on which 
Monsieur Noiret congratulated her. 

“ It is extremely valuable,” he said, “ and will bring in a 
good deal.” 


84 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ Then I must sell it! ” sighed Madame la Roche. 

“ My dear Madame, you would not dream of keeping so 
much capital lying idle.” 

u I suppose not,” again sighed Madame la Roche, “ but I 
am sorry to part from the old things. I was used to them.” 

Monsieur Noiret granted the force of the argument, but 
began nevertheless to speculate on the probable value of an 
ebony cabinet, and the very same day brought a dealer to 
inspect it. The cabinet produced a sum that partly reconciled 
Madame la Roche to its loss; but when day after day she 
saw the old familiar rooms despoiled of the handsome and 
substantial furniture that had adorned them so long ; when 
Dresden, Sevres, and Indian china vanished from buhl and 
marqueterie stands and tables,—when these too, took their 
leave, with pictures and family plate no longer to be hoarded 
up with gentle family pride, the pang became so severe, that 
with something like energy she said : 

“ I must go, Monsieur Noiret; I must, before all is gone. 
I cannot stay till the rooms are bare. I must go.” 

But where to go to was the question. The cook and 
coachman had both left, shedding tears; but the child, Fanny, 
Marie, and Charlotte had remained to share the fortunes and 
the home, such as it might be, of Madame la Roche. To find 
a home for those three persons, besides herself and the child r 
was no easy task ; and yet separation was not to be thought 
of. Marie boldly scouted the mere suggestion that her mis¬ 
tress could do without her. “ Madame is hepless,” she said, 
“ helpless as a baby.” Marie did not add, “ and I, Marie, 
am strong yet and able to work for my old mistress.” She 
kept these thoughts in her own heart, and so naturally did 
they spring, that maybe Marie scarcely knew they were there. 
Charlotte was in reality as devoted to her mistress as her old 
fellow-servant, but she viewed matters differently. To every 
one, save Madame la Roche, Charlotte, the savings of whose 
lifetime had perished in the catastrophe, called Monsieur 
Dupuis a swindler, and wound up the account of her wrongs, 
which were but too real, by declaring that Madame la Roche 
was bound in duty and honour to take care of her. She 
rather perversely omitted saying how one, who could not take 
care of herself, was to take care of others. This view of the 
subject Charlotte discarded. Yet, in the main, she came te 
the same resolve with Marie. She would live and die with 
her dear mistress. 

Fanny said least and felt most; grave, thoughtful, and 


SEVEN YEARS. 


85 


sad, she kept her thoughts and projects locked in her own 
heart. When she spoke of the future, she ever used the 
significant pronoun “ we,” that bound her destiny with that 
of her kind protectress. Both she and Marie saw the case 
more clearly than Charlotte ; like Charlotte, indeed, they w r ere 
fully resolved to live and die with Madame la Roche, but with 
a full consciousness of the burden that was falling on the 
youth of one and on the age of the other. x 

Madame la Roche was the last of her family; her son-in- 
law v r as the native of a remote province, whence he had come 
to Paris, obscure and poor. Save his aged grand-mother, 
Charles Dupuis had no one, and, save a young girl and two 
old servants, she was friendless. Monsieur N oiret v r as willing 
enough to oblige Madame la Roche by helping her to dispose 
of her furniture to the best advantage, but when she spoke of 
seeking a new home he politely acquiesced, without offering 
to assist her in a search that might have committed him in 
some degree to future help. 

It was Fanny w ho, of her own accord, took the lead,—found 
a little apartment at some distance from their present dwell¬ 
ing,—had a few articles of Madame la Roche’s furniture 
transferred to it, and who, in short, did what wavs to be done, 
and saw to everything. 

Thanks to her exertions, and something like a fortnight 
after the house had passed into the hands of its new owner, 
Madame la Roche could rise one morning and say, “ Well, let 
us go.” 

It was a cold dreary morning : a leaden sky hung 
over Paris : a thin white snow was falling; it whitened the 
roofs of houses, and became converted into grey mud on the 
street pavement; but the quiet paths of Madame la Roche’s 
little garden w r ere unsullied. The snow had gathered over 
them all night, and no foot-print had stained its wdiiteness. 
Snow lay on the roof of the little aviary, empty of its once 
gay tenants; snow had replaced the roses of the bosquet, be¬ 
neath which Madame la Roche liked to sit; snow touched 
with w T hite streaks the bare branches and slender trunks of 
the laburnums and lilacs Fanny loved. Every favourite spot, 
every pleasant memorial of the past, wore the same death¬ 
like hue, the same funereal shroud. 

Yet with a restlessness not habitual to her, Madame la 
Roche, spite the snow that fell above and that lay cold below, 
would enter that little garden again, walk over every inch of 
it, and bid all farewell. 


86 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ 1 liked it so much ! ” she said to Fanny, who accom¬ 
panied and supported her, u it was my Versailles, my St. 
Cloud. I envied no one their parks and gardens,—this little 
place was as much to me as theirs to them. Not that it was 
so very little, Fanny, was it? For there are the four paths 
that wind and meet and divide, so that you might spend an 
hour in following them out; then there is the bosquet, and 
the basin, and the aviary. Ah ! well, Fanny, they may say 
what they like, and laugh at it—I say it is a pleasant place, 
and that to sit in that bosquet, with the roses above your 
head, and the birds singing, and the water splashing, is as 
pleasant a thing-as one can wish for on a summer’s day. Ah ! 
well, it is all over; we need not set honey-suckle next year, 
nor put up a trellis that Baptiste may not look at you. It is 
all over, and I am but an old simpleton to stand dreaming 
here of old pleasures and old times, without thinking that this 
same snow is filling on my poor child’s grave; would it fell 
on mine, Fanny, would it fell on mine ! ” 

Tears flowed down her withered cheeks, and her hands 
trembled as she clasped them. 

“ And what would the poor child do without you ? ” asked 
Fanny, gently. But Madame la Roche shook her head des¬ 
pondently. 

“ Of what use am I to him, or to any one ? ” she asked; 
and without waiting for the reply, she added, “ let us go. I 
am keeping you here in the cold, and what for ? old dreams, 
old thoughts, and what for ! ” 

They re-entered the house, they crossed the rooms more 
than half stripped of their contents ; a few minutes more, they 
stood on the threshold of the apartment. Charlotte led the 
child by the hand; Marie, laden with umbrellas and boxes, 
was going down-stairs, grumbling. 

“ Shut the door, child, and give the key to Madame Grand,” 
said Madame la Roche, and she too went down to the fiacre 
waiting for them below. 

Madame Grand was considerably affected at the departure 
of her old mistress. She was even more profuse in her ex¬ 
pressions of regret than Madame la Roche—little used to 
compassion implied or spoken—could well bear. She shrank 
from it with a fastidious sensitiveness, for which she internally 
checked herself, and which she so far conquered outwardly as 
to say : 

“ I am very much obliged to you, Madame Grand.” But 
with a little touch of consequence she added : 


SEVEN YEARS. 


87 


“ You have always been a faithful domestic. Good bye. 
I have recommended you to the new landlord.” 

That she should be recommended by any one, and especial¬ 
ly by so fallen a person as Madame la Roche, seemed to strike 
Madame Grand dumb. She stared amazed, whilst Madame 
la Roche passed on, entered the fiacre, took Charles on her 
knees, and was followed by Fanny and Charlotte, leaving 
Marie behind to fight a dire battle with the coachman, who 
declared that all the packages he saw could not and should not 
enter his vehicle. After a short and fierce contest, the coach¬ 
man was conquered; Marie entered the fiacre exulting and 
dragging her property after her and the carriage drove slowly 
away. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The fiacre stopped before a poor, mean-looking house, in a 
narrow and not over clean street. 

“ It looks worse because this is such a bad day,” said Fan¬ 
ny, looking wistfully at Madame la Roche. 

“ My dear, it will do; let us be thankful for the shelter 
of a roof.” 

“ Thankfnl for the shelter of a roof,” querulously put in 
Charlotte, whose temper followed the variations of her rheu¬ 
matism ; “ I suppose Madame would be thankful if we were 
put under a shed like horses. Ah ! well, I have told Monica 
she would repent the day she went to America; but maybe 
it is I shall repent the day I stayed in Paris.” 

This last remark, however, was more muttered than spoken, 
and was not heard or heeded by Madame la Roche, whom 
Fanny assisted to alight, and w r ho, giving the dull dirty-look- 
ing house and the gloomy porter’s lodge a half frightened look, 
clung to the young girl’s arm, as a male head, with a cotton 
handkerchief tied around it, and a grisly beard by way of 
adornment, looked out of the dark cave-like opening, and 
growled more than asked : 

“ What do you want % ” 

“ We are the new lodgers,” replied Fanny. 

“ And you must needs come in a fiacre, eh 'l why not 
w'alk, too grand, eh ? well, then, let me tell you this is no 
place for grandeur,” with which the head vanished, and a ham¬ 
mering was heard within. 

“ Is that the porter ? ” asked Madame la Roche, in a 
whisper. 


88 


SEVEN YE AES. 


“ Yes, madame, but do not mind him; I am sure he is a 
good-natured man, though he grumbles so ; he helped me to 
carry up half the things, and left his work—he is a shoemaker 
—to do it, and he grumbled the whole way. It is his way.” 

“ Yes, I suppose it is his way,” sighed Madame la Iloche, 
and catching a glimpse of a yard like a well, she went up the 
steep staircase, learning the pain and bitterness of new ways 
at every step of the four floors that led her to her new home. 

She was pale and exhausted by the time they stopped be¬ 
fore a narrow wooden door, very unlike the handsome mas¬ 
sive entrance of her old abode. Fanny took a rusty key 
from her pocket, opened the door, and led Madame la Roche 
into a square room, where a deal table and a few chairs made 
a poor show. 

“ This is our sitting room, kitchen, and dining-room,” said 
Fanny, passing hastily through it,—“ and this is Charlotte and 
Marie’s room,” she said—entering a double-bedded room 
scarcely better furnished,—“ and this is your room,” she ad¬ 
ded, pushing open a door, and leading the way into a room, 
which, though small, was a dainty little boudoir when com¬ 
pared to the other two. 

A pretty paper covered the walls; clean white curtains 
half hid Madame la Roche’s bed, the very same in which she 
had slept for fifty years and more; the little crib of Charles 
was placed near it; there was a carpet on the floor; opposite 
the fire-place, in which a bright fire burned cheerfully, Madame 
la Roche recognised a little rose-wood commode, that had 
always been a great favourite of hers. A glass and time-piece 
adorned the mantle piece, and by the fire her own favourite 
chair and stool seemed to await her. 

“ My dear, what have you been doing ? ” said Madame la 
Roche, much moved. “ This is not right.” 

“ Not right! ” put in Marie, who came up sturdy as ever, 
though somewhat short of breath, “ not right! I say it is all 
as it should be. Eh ! Charlotte ? ” 

“ Madame has been used to conveniences, and Madame 
must have them, come what will,” said Charlotte, gravely. 

“ But your rooms,” said Madame la Roche, sighing, “ why 
should they be so bare and so cold ? ” 

“ We like them so,” curtly replied Marie ; “ and there is 
one comfort,” she added, nodding her lofty cap, which reverses 
of fortune had not induced her to relinquish, “ there is one 
comfort too, I told that coachman a bit of my mind before we 
parted.” 


SEVEN YE AES. 


89 


“ And where do you sleep, Fanny % ” asked Madame la 
Roche, suddenly remembering that she had seen no provisions 
for the young girl. 

“ In a closet,—oh, it is all right,” hastily replied Fanny; 
and she at once engaged the attention of Charles by giving 
him his toys, which he was rather clamorously claiming, and 
diverted the mind of Madame la Roche from all present topics 
by calling her to look at a cage suspended in the window, and 
which held a superannuated canary, the only one Madame la 
Roche had consented to keep. 

“ Poor fellow,” she sighed, “ he is old and useless, like 
me,” and she sank in the arm-chair, whilst Fanny amused the 
child, and Charlotte and Marie made preparations for luncheon. 

Madame la Roche looked on sad and troubled, but did not 
dream of offering help, which would indeed have been indig¬ 
nantly rejected. 

Wealth and ease have their moral disadvantages even for 
the best and the wisest. Madame la Roche was accustomed 
to be waited on, and she could not relinquish the habit at 
once. She was accustomed that others should be busy, whilst 
she sat idle and looked on, a habit of indolence which her 
years had rendered a second nature, and of which she was her¬ 
self scarcely conscious. Looking round her warm and com¬ 
fortable room, she soon forgot that the other rooms were 
rather chill and bare, and sitting in her easy chair, she did not 
remember that the two old servants and the young girl, who 
had united their destiny to her own, were not—though of more 
active habits—much more used to hard and coarse work than 
Madame la Roche herself. 

Luncheon was soon ready. Marie cooked it, and perform¬ 
ed prodigies ; Fanny brought it in, for Madame la Roche was 
served in her own room, a stateliness against which she pro¬ 
tested in vain. The meal, a plain one after all, for it consisted 
merely of a cotelette au gratin, with two potatoes for the plat 
au legumes, and a solitary apple for the dessert, was scarcely 
begun, when a ring announced a visitor, and Fanny, who 
aswered it, admitted Monsieur Noiret. 

Monsieur Noiret was, as usual, in good spirits,—he joked 
with Marie, he pinched Fanny’s cheek, he patted the head of 
Charles, who eyed him askance, and looking benevolently at 
Madame la Roche, at the bright fire by which she sat, at the 
pleasant little room, at the comfortable meal on the table, 
Monsieur Noiret exclaimed cheerfully : 


90 


SEVEN YEAltS. 


“ Why, this is all as it should be ! I congratulate you, my 
dear friend, on the pleasant home you have found.” 

Madame la Roche laid down the bit she was carrying to 
her mouth: the word home brought with it remembrances 
still too fresh and too trying; but though tears stood in her 
eyes, she compelled herself to reply : “ God is very good to 
me, I am very thankful.” 

“ Of course, of course,” said Monsieur Noiret, still cheer¬ 
ful. “ By the way, I am going to the country, and before 
going, I called to settle some little matters with you. Do you 
know, I think that the sum-total brought in by your furniture 
will bring you in no less than four hundred francs a year. 
Very handsome, is it not ? Of course it would bring in more 
if you would have an annuity, but then that would die with 
you, and there would be nothing left for that fine little fellow. 
Well, what do you say to that % Shall I send my homme 
d’affaires to manage that for you % I am going to the country, 
otherwise I should be most happy to take the whole charge of 
this little business.” 

“ As you like, if you please,” said Madame la Roche. “ I 
am very much obliged to you.” 

“ Do not mention it,” replied Monsieur Noiret rising, 
“ you are highly welcome, and do not stir, I beg. I am 
rather in a hurry on account of going into the country, else I 
should not leave you so early.” 

And gracious and buoyant as ever, Monsieur Noiret de¬ 
parted. 

“ Going into the country,” grumbled Marie, as the door 
closed upon him; “ ay, ay, we know what that means. Mind 
my words, Charlotte, Monsieur Noiret will come no more.” 

“ Madame is in want of no one, friend or foe,” said Char¬ 
lotte, with much dignity. 

“ I never before heard that people were in want of ene¬ 
mies,” sharply said -Marie. 

“ Nor I,” composedly replied Charlotte, “ so, if you please, 
we will say no more about it.” 

The invitation not to speak was one which Marie always 
particularly resented, and which would probably have led to 
some bitter altercation, if Fanny, issuing from Madame la 
Roche’s room, had not appeared, holding up her fore-finger in 
a warning attitude. “ Madame is sleeping,” she said softly. 

“ Poor dear,” sighed Charlotte, “ she has not slept this 
many a night. I hope no one will have the heard-heartedness 
to waken her.” 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


91 


Marie felt the implied insult, but had virtue enough to 
resist the provocation and keep her peace. 

Monsieur Noiret, being in the country, could not call any 
more; but his solicitor came, an honest man, and one of few 
words, who speedily put Madame la Roche in possession of 
her new income, amounting to four hundred francs, as Mon¬ 
sieur Noiret had announced. When this matter was satisfac¬ 
torily settled the solicitor withdrew, and, like Monsieur Noiret, 
was seen no more. 

“ Four hundred francs a year,” said Madame la Roche to 
her little assembled family ; “ it does not seem much, and yet 
it is pleasant to have something left, though but a mite.” 

“ Let not Madame mind,” stoutly said Marie, “ we can 
work, and we will, too. 1 can earn twenty francs a month, 
which makes two hundred and forty francs a year.” 

“ And I can earn two francs a day,” said Fanny, “ which 
makes seven hundred and twenty francs a year. If Madame 
adds that to four hundred and two hundred and forty, she will 
find it makes quite a pretty income.” 

“ Why, so it does ! ” exclaimed Madame la Roche, dazzled 
at this unexpected vision of prosperity ; “ thirteen hundred 
and sixty francs a year. Quite a large sum.” 

“ Quite, ” said Fanny, gaily, “ and therefore Madame is to 
take no thought, no care, and no trouble, but leave us to 
manage all.” 

o 

“ I should like to know how you are going to manage 
all those fine things, ” rather tartly asked Charlotte, as soon 
as they were withdrawn from Madame la Roche’s presence. 

“ God knows ! ” replied Fanny, suddenly despondent; 
u but yet it must be done.” 

“ Ay, ay, it must be done, ” said Marie. 

“ If that bad man had not taken away all my poor savings,” 
sighed Charlotte, “ I could now live like a lady.” 

“ I wonder you think of yourself when a real lady like 
Madame is reduced to four hundred francs a year,” hotly said 
Marie. “ I wonder. ” 

“ And I wonder you cannot leave off quarrelling, ” inter¬ 
rupted Fanny; “doors and walls are thin, and suppose Ma¬ 
dame should hear you ? ” 

This suggestion effectually secured silence. 


92 


SEVEN YEARS. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Monsieur Noiret kept up the polite and convenient fic¬ 
tion of being- in the country. 

He probably conceived that he was not called upon to do 
any more for Madame la Roche than he had done ; it may be 
too, that he thought he had done plenty, for he ceased his visits 
and allowed his old friend to shift for herself, as a matter of 
course. 

Baptiste, who had kept in the back-ground, now came for¬ 
ward and quietly did his best. 

“ If Madame will allow me,” he said, respectfully address¬ 
ing Madame la Roche, “ I think I can improve matters a 
little. Upholsterers have experience in these things.” 

Madame la Roche thanked him, and gave him full autho¬ 
rity to act as he pleased. So because he was an upholsterer, 
and had experience in those things, Baptiste began making 
some wonderful changes. He first of all discovered that his 
shop was full of useless furniture. A little chintz sofa, which 
had found no purchaser, an easy chair, stools, carpets, curtains, 
all equally useless to him, were quickly transferred from his 
shop to the apartment of Madame la Roche. The change was 
too great not to strike her ; still, not being of a suspicious turn 
or temper, she only marvelled a little, then demurred gently : 

“ Baptiste you are doing too much, ” she said. “1 cannot 
allow it. Some of that furniture must be useful to you.” 

“ I shall put nothing more, Madame, ” replied Baptiste, 
who had done by this, and had only a few more pictures to 
hang up. 

His conduct was variously commented upon in the little 
circle. Madame la Roche was moved by the kindness, but she 
had been too long used to money to feel the value of Baptiste’s 
conduct. Charlotte, whom he had unfortunately offended by 
an illusion to selfishness, which she unluckily took as a per¬ 
sonal reflection, querulously declared the young man was good, 
but conceited, and especially overrated. Marie grumbled loud, 
and darted fiery suspicious looks at him. Fanny said nothing, 
but Baptiste uneasily noticed that her own brown eyes rested 
on him with a sad lingering expression. He never questioned 
her ; he never asked why she looked so, or what ailed her ; he 
went on with his self-imposed task, sturdily resolved on an end 
which he kept to himself. 

In the mean while Marie went out as a day-servant in a 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


93 


quiet family close by ; Fanny had resumed her occupation as 
a dressmaker ; Charlotte took care of Charles, the only thing 
she was fit for, and Madame la Roche did nothing : to do 
nothing had unfortunately been the occupation of her whole 
lifetime. 

Madame la Roche was not what might be called a selfish 
woman. 

Her own comfort and happiness were not and had not been 
her only aim in life, but it had so happened, that she had had 
no other great object to engross her attention, and that she had 
taken a habit of being comfortable, easy, indolent, and helpless, 
like many a moneyed lady. Sacrifices she did not take for 
granted, but she was not always conscious of them. She soon 
forgot that Baptiste’s furniture filled her rooms, it seemed so 
natural to have things comfortable. She did not dwell long on 
the hardship of Marie and Fanny having to support her and 
her grand-child. She had always seen them busy; they did 
not mind working, and it seemed so like as things should be, 
that want should not come near her. That she might ever be 
cold or hungry was more than Madame la Roche could possibly 
conceive. 

Thus a few weeks had passed. The day had been cold, 
though fine ; it was freezing now, and Madame la Roche, her 
two old servants, Fanny, and the child, were gathered in the 
front room, and around one light and one fire. Poverty had 
levelled distinctions, and broken down barriers that had never 
been very potent. 

Madame la Roche sat in the easy chair worked by Fanny. 
Baptiste had bpught it back at the sale, for the use of the 
young girl’s protectress. Placid and settled grief was in her 
features. She sat, as of old, with her hands on her knees. 
She was watching her little grand-child, who, nestled on 
Fanny’s lap, was learning his letters from a large spelling- 
book. Marie was sewing vigorously by the light of a tallow 
candle, and Charlotte, groaning with rheumatic pains, that 
prevented her from stirring out of her arm-chair,—another 
gift of the provident Baptiste,—was holding a mild argument 
with her usual antagonist. To Fanny’s annoyance they were 
talking of Baptiste. 

“ I never liked him,” said Marie, strongly, u and when I 
do not like, why I do not; but I do say that he has behaved 
well.” 

“ Baptiste has been very kind,” sighed Madame la Roche. 


94 


SEVEN YEAES. 


u Very,” resumed Marie, “hut I do say it is time he 
should leave it off.” 

“ He really has done enough,” interrupted Madame la 
Roche. 

“ Leave off coming here,” pursued Marie, “ what does he 
want ? It is loss of time to him, and no gain to us.” 

“ The young man is not understood,” said Charlotte, in a 
mild tone of voice that implied she would set both right; “ he 
is conceited, neither more nor less.” 

“ Poor Baptiste! ” ejaculated Fanny, but she spoke low, 
and no one heard her. 

“ The young man is conceited,” repeated Charlotte ; “ he 
has an exaggerated opinion of his own importance, but he 
is not amiss.” 

“ He has behaved very well,” said Marie, significantly 
glancing at Charlotte’s easy chair, and at the comfortable 
stool under her feet, “ and when one knows how to manage 
him, one can get anything out of Baptiste. But, thank 
Heaven, my spirit always was above that.” 

Charlotte acknowledged the taunt with a smile and 
merely replied : 

“ Baptiste has good points, and can be taught his place. 
A knowledge much older persons do not always arrive at.” 

A severe answer rose to Marie’s lips, but charity checked 
it. She remembered that Charlotte was a useless member 
of their little household, and compassionate delicacy silenced 
the reproving words, to which the flesh would fain give vent. 
She took a lofty air, that implied: “ I could crush you 
but I will not,” and sewed on with renewed vigour. 

A ring at the door was heard. 

“ I suppose it is Baptiste,” snappishly said Marie, “ at 
this hour, too! I marvel at him; stay where you are, Fanny, 
I shall go and open.” 

Fanny, who had half risen, sat down again, and Marie 
opened the door of the room where they were sitting, and 
which was also the first that a visitor must needs enter. 

Baptiste appeared on the threshold, carefully holding 
a picture, an old family portrait which he had undertaken 
to frame anew with a frame in his shop, “ quite useless to 
him,” and which he now brought back to Madame la Roche. 

She received him with her usual kindness, thanked him for 
the trouble he had taken, and made him sit down by her. 
Baptiste replied rather at random; he was watching Fanny, 
who scarcely minded him, and was still engrossed with the 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


95 


child. The calm repelling looks of Charlotte, or the stern 
forbidding glances of Marie, both of which said: <c what 
brings you here ?” Baptiste did not mind, although he un¬ 
consciously answered the question they conveyed. 

“ Madame,” said he, addressing Madame la Roche, “ I hope 
you will not think me troublesome, if I mention a matter 
relative to myself, and solicit your kind attention.” 

“ Certainly not,” replied Madame la Roche, “ certainly 
not, Baptiste; you have a right to talk about yourself; for 
it seems to be a thing you never do. Indeed, I fancy you 
think a great deal too much about others. Do you know, it is 
quite a nice frame you have put around the portrait of my 
dear grandmother.” 

“ It was lying all but useless in my shop,” muttered Bap¬ 
tiste. - 

“I am sorry to hear that,” musingly replied Madame la 
Roche; “I fear your business is not quite thriving just 
now.” 

“ Oh yes, it is,” he rather quickly answered ; “ I am doing 
very well, Madame.” 

“ So much the better,” she placidly rejoined, “ but I 
thought the reverse, from the number of useless things you 
had lying on your hands. And what was it you wanted to 
say, Baptiste ?” 

The voice of Baptiste stuck in his throat, he looked at 
Fanny, who turned red and pale, and he was going to speak, 
when Marie, laying down her work, observed calmly : 

u Of course, Monsieur Baptiste, all that nonsense is over— 
for a time at least,” she added, hesitatingly. 

“ But I was to have married Fanny in another day,” urged 
Baptiste, rather earnestly. 

Madame la Roche sank back in her chair and wept slowly. 
Marie audibly uttered the word “ wretch.” 

Baptiste heard her with more amazement than wrath, and 
as he had one of those slow pertinacious tempers, which are 
not easily disconcerted, he waited until Madame la Roche 
gently wiped her eyes, to resume calmly: 

“1 am sorry to have grieved Madame, I was far from sup¬ 
posing that I should do so.” 

“ It is no fault of yours, Baptiste,” gently said Madame la 
Roche ; “ I am nervous, and cannot think calmly of that sad 
day. But really, Baptiste, with the people leaving all those 
things on your hands,—frames, tables, and even sofas and 


90 


SEVEN YEARS. 


chairs,—I cannot think your business to be a flourishing one, 
or such as will allow you to marry.” 

Baptiste looked disconcerted at the argument, but he soon 
rallied, and assured Madame la Boche his circumstances were 
good. 

u Well, but you know I cannot give Fanny those fifteen 
hundred francs which I had promised,” she resumed, “ and 
that makes a great difference.” 

u I am aware of that, Madame, but though the fifteen hun¬ 
dred francs w T ould have been welcome, I can do without them. 
My plan is this,” he resumed : to “ marry Fanny, and to ask 
Madame, her godmother,” he added, looking at Charlotte, 11 to 
live with us.” 

'By ridding Madame la Roche and Marie of a useless 
member of their family, Baptiste thought to atone for the loss 
he must make them sustain in depriving them of Fanny’s 
services and earnings. But the plan, though excellent, was 
destined to meet with unqualified opposition from two influ¬ 
ential persons. Marie opposed it because she had not sug¬ 
gested it, or had not been consulted about it; Charlotte, 
because she held it as neither more nor less than a premedi¬ 
tated affront to her dignity. 

“ Young man,” she said with a lofty wave of the hand, 
u know your place, know your place. My place,” she added, 
looking hard and nodding' at Marie, “ my place is here, and 
nowhere else.” 

“ Monsieur Baptiste,” sharply said Marie, “ I have plenty 
wherewith to try my temper; plenty, I assure you ; you will 
oblige me by not bringing a hornet’s nest about my ears. 
As for your proposal to marry Fanny, it is absurd, quite ab¬ 
surd.” 

“ No, no,” gently sighed Madame la Roche, “ not absurd; 
but still, Baptiste, do you not think it might be put off? 
Surely there is plenty of time for marriage ? ” 

Baptiste looked at the three women. Perhaps he thought 
this but a poor return for some kindness, but, without linger¬ 
ing on this thought, he turned to Fanny. She sat by the fire, 
her head leaning against the mantel-shelf, silent tears slowly 
coursing down her pale cheeks. The child still sat on her 
knees, and looked at her wondering. Baptiste felt hurt, he 
rose. 

“ Fanny,” lie said, “ it rests with you.” 

Fanny looked at him earnestly. 

“ No, Baptiste,” she said, “ that cannot be.” 


SEVEN YEARS. 97 

“ Is that your promise ? ” asked Baptiste, stung to the very 
heart. 

She did not reply. He Jooked round him, and said husk¬ 
ily : “ Good night, ladies.” Then he turned away and left the 
room undetained. 

Baptiste had got down to the second floor, when a light 
hand laid on his arm made him turn round. On the step above 
him he saw Fanny with tears on her cheek. 

“ Oh ! Baptiste,” she said in a subdued voice, “ how can 
you leave me so ? Bo you not see it is because I like you that 
I will not marry you ? You do not know what it would be 
to take me ! What a sad burden I should bring with me 1 
Baptiste, it would be four to provide for, and worse, far worse, 
believe me—to please.” 

“ I will bear with anything to have you,” said Baptiste, 
taking her in his arms. 

“ And I like you too well to have you,” said Fanny, hang¬ 
ing down her head. 

“ Fanny, that cannot be,” resumed Baptiste, “ that cannot 
be. Think of it well,—it is parting forever. If you send me 
away thus, I will not seek you again, Fanny.” 

Her heart failed her ; her head swam, her hand trembled 
in his. Baptiste would keep to his word, sturdily and stoutly 
he would. She knew it, and a pang like that of death seized 
her whole being. 

11 Baptiste, is that our parting ? ” she asked in a low voice ; 
“ can we not part, since part we must, like two friends whom 
Providence divides, but who love each other for all that ? ” 

“ No,” said Baptiste, clasping her more closely; u you 
are my wife, Fanny, or you are not. And now, Fanny, if you 
love me, now is the time to show it. Will you marry me V ” 

“ It would be your ruin; I cannot,” said Fanny, in a low 
faint voice. 

11 Are those your last words ? ” asked Baptiste, releasing 

her. 

“ They are,” she replied, leaning against the banisters for 
support. 

“ Then good night, and good bye. You never liked me.” 

He went down, and did not look back. 


5 


98 


SEVEN YEAES. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Fanny went up like one stunned. She entered the room 
where Madame la Roche and the two old servants were sitting, 
and she resumed her chair, without uttering a word. The 
three looked at her, feeling rather frightened at her white 
face ; hut Fanny did not speak. Madame la Roche at length 
said : 

“ My dear child, have you not tried yourself too far ? ” 

To which Fanny replied in a low voice : 

“ Madame, what I have done I would do again.” 

u Of course,” said Marie, with a strength of look and ac¬ 
cent meant to veil some secret uneasiness. 11 Fanny has too 
much sense not to know this is no time for marriage, and all 
such follies.” 

“ I am surprised at the young man’s extraordinary pre¬ 
sumption,” observed Charlotte ; 11 of course he was encouraged 
in, as well as advised to, his recent conduct; but still I am 
surprised.” 

“ May I request to know what you mean to insinuate by 
encouraged and advised ? ” asked Marie, laying down her 
work. 

“ I really cannot allow any more of this,” said Madame la 
Roche, nervously ; “ it is late ; besides, I really cannot.” 

“ I always knew Madame took Charlotte’s part,” reproach¬ 
fully remarked Marie, “ always. It is nothing new to me, 
whatever some people may think.” 

To this taunt Charlotte did not reply, but rising, she 
piously thanked Heaven that she knew her place, that she had 
always known it, and that no one had ever needed to remind 
her of the necessity of keeping her place. Marie seemed ex¬ 
asperated, and Madame la Roche, folding her hands, looked 
piteous and imploring. 

“ Poor Baptiste ! ” thought Fanny, “ it would have driven 
him mad.” 

Magnanimity made Marie keep silent, but when Charlotte 
had left the room she turned to Fanny and said sharply : 

“ I trust that the unfortunate young man, who has proved 
an apple of discord, will not come here in a hurry.” 

“ It is not likely,” replied Fanny, with slight bitterness; 
u he is no longer of any use, why should he come here ? ” 

“ Fanny, my dear! ” mildly said Madame la Roche. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


99 


“ Madame,” said Fanny, firmly, a I regret nothing; I am 
content that things should be as they are.” 

“ I am not surprised at this,” put in Marie, looking in¬ 
jured ; “ that big booby was always more in her eyes than any¬ 
thing or any one else.” 

Fanny did not reply ; Madame la Roche wrung her hands 
and looked distressed. 

“ Oh! why did I lose my money ? ” she ejaculated. 

“ I did not think Madame would turn on me,” said Marie, 
with a meek resignation that seemed borrowed from Charlotte; 
“ but, thank Heaven, I can bear with many things. Come 
along, Monsieur Charles, it is time for you to go to bed.” 
And taking the child by the hand, she left the room. 

Madame la Roche looked at Fanny, whose head was resting 
once more on the corner of the mantel-shelf. In the young 
girl’s heart, too, had rung that bitter cry: “ Oh, why did I 
lose my money ? ” 

Ay, it was money-loss did it all. A little money, and these 
three would, as of old, have quarrelled but to make her happy. 
No other strife, but how best to please her, their darling, need 
have arisen amongst them. And now her happiness, her 
pleasure, seemed their last thought; she might fret and break 
her heart about Baptiste,—the coldness of age, the sadness of 
experience and of poverty, would make them think lightly of 
her trouble. 

A gentle voice roused her from these sad thoughts. 

“ My dear,” said Madame la Roche, “ I fear you have tried 
yourself too much.” 

Fanny smiled bravely. 

“ Madame,” she said, “ I would do it over again—were it 
to be done,” she added sadly. 

Madame la Roche felt that the young girl would acknowl¬ 
edge no more, and though her mind was tender and delicate, 
and could pity love troubles, even in the midst of her own 
sorrows, it was not subtle or ingenuous enough to extract the 
acknowledgment of grief from a sad young heart. She gave 
Fanny a pitiful look, and feeling unable to comfort her, she 
rose, and bidding her a good night, hoped “ she would try and v 
sleep.” 

Madame la Roche went to her room, and Fanny to her 
little bed in the closet; but the sound sleep of youth came not 
near her. She sighed and wept, and sighed again, and was 
glad to see the dull light of morning creeping in, and to get up 
to the dull cares of the day. She prepared the breakfast as 


100 


SEVEN YEARS. 


usual, and as usual she did it neatly and handily without 
noise or seeming trouble; but her sorrow slept in her own 
heart, unallayed and undisturbed by the screaming and scold¬ 
ing that went on around her. 

“ Monsieur Charles, will you be quiet! ” said Marie, in a 
voice of subdued indignation, that for a moment at least 
checked the boy. He was galloping across the room astride 
on an old cotton umbrella, but he stopped when Marie told him 
to let his grandmother sleep. 

“ She was always a late sleeper,” added Marie, turning to 
Charlotte, “ and it is not because the dear lady is poor that 
she is not to sleep. That costs nothing at least.” 

“ Time enough to waken to care and sorrow,” groaned 
Charlotte. 

“ Very true,” approvingly remarked Marie. 

There was this particular beauty in the quarrels of Marie 
and Charlotte, that they ended every evening. Every morn¬ 
ing these two enemies woke friends, and began on a fresh 
score. Thus their pastime was never over, and they could 
agree and disagree to their life’s end and to their heart’s con¬ 
tent. A ceaseless quarrel would not have answered the pur¬ 
pose by any means; whereas these intervals of truce gave 
something like zest to the battle. On the principle of peace 
they now agreed that Madame la Roche could not do better 
than sleep in the morning, and on the principle of war they 
soon emitted different opinions on sleep in general, and on 
dreams in particular. 

“ The best sleep is the last,” said Charlotte. 

“ I like the first best,” replied Marie. 

“ Perhaps your early dreams are the pleasantest,” said 
Charlotte, smiling. 

“ Perhaps they are,” retorted Marie. 

“ They may refer to your early years and triumphs,” con¬ 
tinued Charlotte, sweetly. 

“ Ah! well,” sighed Marie, 11 if early sleep makes early 
dreams, you may well like the last sleep best. You need not 
dream of your husband—poor man.” 

Charlotte inquired into her exact meaning, and why she 
used the adjective poor. 

“ I know, I know,” sagaciously said Marie, “ and so $o 
many besides me,” she added, sotto voce. 

“ Never was any good got by keeping low company,” 
sighed Charlotte. 

“ Please to explain,” rejoined Marie. 


SEVEN YEAKS. 


101 


“ I know, I know,” was the quiet retort. 

On these first random shots followed a sharp fusillade, and 
when Fanny awoke from her sad dreams she found herself in 
the very din of war. She looked at them listlessly, whilst the 
beseeching voice of Madame la Roche was heard exclaiming 
from within: 

“ Charlotte, what is the matter ? ” 

At once Charlotte went in to her mistress. 

“ Ay, Fanny, let her go and tell her story to Madame,” 
said Marie, “ let her, Fanny,—we scorn her.” 

“ Breakfast is ready,” said Fanny, cold and passive. She 
laid the cloth, and filled out two large coffee cups with the 
beverage in which the French excel. In a smaller cup of 
Sevres china she poured rich chocolate. The cup had been 
Madame la lloche’s breakfast-cup since she was a bride. 
Chocolate of the choicest quality was the breakfast she pre¬ 
ferred ; with pardonable extravagance, and spite altered cir¬ 
cumstances, her two old servants would not hear of her giving 
it up. 

Charlotte soon came out of her mistress’s room, took the 
chocolate, and carried it in with a grand air. Charles, who 
always shared his grandmother’s dainty, slipped in after her. 

Marie sat down and took her breakfast, without waiting for 
her fellow-servant. 

“ Bo like me, Fanny,” she added, addressing the young 
girl, u do not mind her; treat her with contempt, and take 
your breakfast.” 

“ I am not hungry,” replied Fanny. 

“ Not hungry, child; you do not mean to say that you 
mind her? take your breakfast, Fanny, and let her go on as 
she likes, and despise it all.” 

Spite this touching exhortation, Fanny did not eat, and 
Marie had finished her solitary meal by the time Charlotte 
condescended to come forth and sit down to her coffee, which 
Fanny had kept warm. 

“ Thank Heaven,” said Marie, rising from the table, 
“ thank Heaven, I never eat the bread of idleness. I work, 
and I am proud to work,” she added, pinning oil her shawl. 

“ Some people are in independent circumstances, and need 
not work,” placidly said Charlotte. 

This was almost more than Marie, going out as a day- 
servant for the general good, could bear with patience. But 
she controlled herself as she thought, and said mildly: 

“ I thank Heaven that if I have to earn my bread by going 


102 


SEVEN YE AES. 


out, a hard fate at my age, I am at least appreciated where I 
g<3. Madame le Brun is already as fond of me as if I had 
been years with her. It is Marie here, and Marie there, and 
Marie every thing. If I only would go and live with her I 
might do so. It was only last night that she said to me: 
e Marie, I wonder at a girl of your spirit remaining as you are; 

I wonder at you. Come with me and make me comfortable, 
and I will make you happy, and after I die, Marie, you shall 
be provided for.’ ‘ No, no, Madame,’ I replied, ‘ I cannot do 
that; I have my dear mistress, who, though not dependent 
upon me, requires me; then I must dress Monsieur Charles, 
the little darling, in the morning: and there is my little Fan- 
ny, a good work-woman, but a little giddy, flighty thing, who 
requires an older and a wiser head than her own to rule her; 
and then, Madame,’ I added, ‘ there is a poor old thing, a 
helpless fellow-servant of mine, Madame, who has nothing but 
my poor earnings, Madame, and I would die, Madame, and I 
would have my right hand cut off, Madame, before I would 
forsake her, Madame.’ ‘ Very proper,’ said Madame le Brun; 

I I admire you, Marie; stick to her, poor old thing; do not 
forsake her, Marie. If you do, who will mind her ? ” 

Here Marie stopped, perhaps because she was out of breath, 
perhaps because she wished to see what effect she had pro¬ 
duced. Charlotte was still drinking her coffee, the contents 
of which she longed to throw in the face of her devoted fel¬ 
low-servant. A few words, slowly uttered, comprised her re¬ 
venge. 

“ You see, Fanny,” she said, addressing the young girl, 
“ you see what age can do. It impairs body, mind, memory, 
all, and makes us what you behold,” she added, casting on 
Marie a look of deep compassion. 

u What is the matter ? ” asked the soft plaintive voice of 
Madame la Boche, who appeared on the threshold of the 
room. “ What have you been saying ? ” 

Swiftly did Marie reply with a short laugh: 

“ Oh ! nothing, Madame. Charlotte, though she knows I 
am younger than Madame, throws my age in my face. We 
are both in second childhood, Madame. However, I can 
work, thank Heaven. And there is this comfort at least, that 
Madame Charlotte cannot say I am a dependant upon her.” 

So saying, Marie majestically went out, slammed the door, 
and in going down, slipped and fell. 

The sound of her fall brought out the whole family and a 
neighbour on the landing. They found Marie senseless with 


SEVEN YEARS. 


103 


the pain. Not without trouble, for she was a great weight, 
they carried her in, and laid her on a bed. A little vinegar 
soon restored her to consciousness. Without saying a word, 
Marie sat up, felt her foot, groaned with pain, then sank back 
and burst into tears. 

u Oh ! my work, my work,” she moaned. “ My work and 
my wages ! I have sprained my ancle.” 

Charlotte bent over her and kissed her. 

u Never mind, dear,” she said, “ I’ll do your work for 
you.” 

Marie did not reply, but turned her face to the wall and 
cried bitterly. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Marie had indeed sprained her ancle, and the doctor, who 
was immediately called in, coolly declared she should not stir 
for six weeks. 

“ But I must,” said Marie; “ I have work to do.” 

“ You cannot,” he replied. 

“She shall not,” declared Charlotte. “We have been 
fellow-servants forty years and more, and it will go hard in¬ 
deed if I cannot work whilst Marie stays quiet.” 

Marie was considerably affected by these generous senti¬ 
ments, and as she really could not move, she submitted with 
tolerable grace to Charlotte’s patronage. 

Charlotte’s rheumatism was indeed so far better that she 
could supply Marie’s place with Madame le Brun ; but if she 
went out and worked, Fanny had to spend many days at home 
to attend on the patient. 

Madame la Boche was too inexperienced and too delicate 
for the task, so that Charlotte’s devotedness was a very doubt¬ 
ful piece of economy. This Fanny vainly tried to make her 
understand. Charlotte was too happy in her magnanimity to 
give it up so easily. 

Yet, strange to say, Marie, as she got better, grew tired of 
kindness; she became more than usually irritable and fantas¬ 
tic, and Fanny paid the penalty of her caprices. Nothing 
would do her one evening, but that the young girl should go to 
Madame Grand’s, and claim a book of dreams, formerly lent 
in times of amity to that lady. 

“But I am so busy,” objected Fanny, “and Charlotte 
passes the door every day.” 


104 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ And do you suppose I am going to ask Charlotte ? ” was 
the indignant reply. “ Charlotte, who gives herself such airs 
just because she goes to Madame le Brun in my stead ! No, 
child, thank Heaven, I am not quite so mean, and you shall 
either get me that book, or I shall do without it till I am well 
again.” 

“ Very well, I shall go,” replied Fanny; and she thought, 
“ it is evening, I shall not see Baptiste, nor will he see me.” 

Yet it was not without emotion that Fanny reentered once 
more the well-known street, caught a glimpse of Baptiste’s 
shop, and crossed the threshold of the old number two. 

“ Oh, Fanny ! ” said Madame Grand, who had put her head 
out to see who it was, “ well, my dear, how are you, and whom 
do you want ? ” 

“ Marie sends me,” replied Fanny, who felt the patronizing 
tone; “she lent you a dream-book formerly, and must trouble 
you for it now.” 

Madame Grand laughed and seemed amused. 

“ A dream-book ! tell her, my dear, that she dreamt it. 
Bless you, child, I have not and never had such a thing. 
Poor Marie, she is getting old, I see. But just come here, my 
dear, I have a word or two to say to you.” 

Fanny reluctantly complied, and drew near Madame 
Grand, who confidentially whispered : 

“ I am very sorry about Baptiste. I assure you we all 
think you very ill used. I cannot bear to look at the man.” 

“ I do not complain of Baptiste, I have no right,” said 
Fanny, coldly. 

“ No right! ” echoed Madame Grand. “ The man who was 
to have married you marrying another girl, and a little pink¬ 
eyed thing, too. No right! Why, child, what do you mean ? ” 

“ That Monsieur Watt was free to marry, and does me no 
wrong.” 

She still spoke calmly, for, to say the truth, she did not be¬ 
lieve a word Madame Grand had uttered. 

“ Well, well, people will be proud,” muttered Madame 
Grand, not looking well pleased ; “ as you like, my dear; but, 
let me tell you, other people know best.” 

“ Good evening,” coldly said Fanny, and she turned awav 
apparently unmoved. 

She left the house and the street without having seen 
Baptiste, or cast a look towards his shop. Coming, she°had a 
vague unacknowledged hope that they might meet by chance, 
and that this meeting, though fruitless, might yield to both a 


SEVEN YEARS. 


105 


sort of bitter joy. But now Fanny bad no such hope or wish. 
She hastened away like one pursued, and did not slacken her 
pace till all danger of meeting was over. So far the words of 
Madame Grand had borne their fruit. 

When the young girl reentered the house she found Char¬ 
lotte, who had just come in, anything but pleased at her absence, 
and at the cause of it, which Marie had not chosen to conceal. 
Magnanimity, though sweet, wearies in the end, and Charlotte 
was getting tired of being magnanimous; accordingly, when 
Fanny briefly delivered Madame Grand’s message, to the pur¬ 
port that that lady had not and had never had a dream-book, 
Charlotte exclaimed, without waiting for Marie’s reply : 

u A dream-book ! Absurd. I had an aunt who believed 
in dreams, and who missed marrying a captain, because the 
night before he made his proposal she had dreamed of carrots.” 

“ I am very fond of young carrots,” softly said Madame la 
Boclie, hoping to allay the storm, but only added to its force, 
by giving Marie time to subdue the first bursts of her anger, 
and meditate before she aimed her blow. 

Charlotte had sat down on a chair like one tired. 

“ How very fatigued you look,” said Marie. 

“Not I,” curtly replied Charlotte, u not I. How is your 
ancle ? ” 

“ Almost well, thank you. I know you feel this over-exer¬ 
tion, but it will soon be over, I shall soon be well again.” 

“ My dear Marie,” kindly observed Charlotte, “ I did not 
like to say so, because I would not hurt your feelings, but it 
is time you should know the truth : you need not return to 
Madame le Brun’s.” 

“ What! ” said Marie. 

“ You need not return to Madame le Brun’s. I am sorry 
to say she has not shown a proper sense of gratitude to you. 
Her language and her tone are not respectful.” 

“ Ah ! bah ! ” said Marie, with sceptical irony. 

“ She has quite hurt my feelings,” pursued Charlotte; 
“ * that old Marie was a bore,’ she says, 4 and the charcoal she 
used to burn, my dear! such waste, such extravagance ! As 
for her cooking, it was poor in the extreme. She tried three 
times to fricasse a chicken, and she could not. She would 
not, my dear. I am sorry for her ancle, but I am not sorry 
to be rid of her; I really am not. You suit me much better.’ 
You do not call that gratitude, do you?” added Charlotte, 
turning to Marie. 


5 * 


106 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ I call it a scandalous invention,” replied Marie, trem¬ 
bling with passion. 

“ Time will show,” said Charlotte, calmly, “ time will 
§Jaow. I might tell you a great deal more that Madame le 
Brun says, but where is the use ? it would only exasperate you, 
and I do not want to do that,” kindly added Charlotte. 

“ Oh, dear! ” sighed Madame la Roche, “ why did I lose 
my money ? I had always heard the poor were so good and so 
kind to each other, but I am afraid, I really am, that their 
poverty makes them bitter, and that they only know how to 
snap, snarl, and bite.” 

“ I suppose Madame means that for me,” said Marie. “ I 
was never told before that I was given to biting.” 

“ I think it is a judgment on us about that poor Baptiste,” 
resumed Madame la Roche ; “we did not behave well to him ; 
we really did not.” 

Fanny smiled with some bitterness, but went on with her 
sewing. This allusion to Baptiste restored sudden peace be¬ 
tween the contending parties. 

“ Oh ! if Madame takes Baptiste’s part,” began Marie. 

“If she thinks we have not behaved well to that pre¬ 
sumptuous young fellow! ” said Charlotte. 

“ Dear me, I think nothing,” said Madame la Roche, 
rather frightened, and hoping by this declaration to be on the 
safe side. But though respectful in form, the reproaches of 
her two old servants might have been bitter in spirit, if, 
looking up at them both, Fanny had not said: 

“ I do not care to hear Baptiste joraised, for no one knows 
half the good of him that I do ; but I will not hear him 
blamed by those who have no right to blame him.” 

This rather peremptory speech diverted the storm from 
Baptiste to Fanny; she received reproaches, remonstrances, 
and arguments with freezing coldness, and heard them 
without a word. 

“ I am sure she still thinks of him.” said Marie. 

“ I always shall,” said Fanny, speaking for the first time. 

“Well, then, my dear,” said Charlotte, after a pause, “do 
not. For some days I have known what I must tell you 
now.” 

“ I do not believe it,” interrupted Fanny, turning very 
red ; “ I know what you mean, but I do not believe it; you 
have been misinformed.” 

“ I tell you, child, I read it with my own eyes at the door 
of the Mairie : Baptiste Watt is going to get married.” 


SEVEN YEARS. 107 

Fanny clasped her hands tightly, and seemed to gasp for 
breath, but she soon recovered, and said quietly : 

41 Oh! very well,” and she resumed her work with assumed 
calmness. 

This incident broke the tide Oi war, but did not prevent 
Marie from brooding uneasily over the words of Charlotte. 

Such indeed was the result of her meditations, that she 
resolved to put the gratitude of Madame le Brun to speedy 
proof. She knew it was that lady’s intention to send Charlotte 
out at two the next day, and at two, accordingly, Marie 
dressed herself and went out. Her ancle was now almost 
well, and it was little trouble to her to walk, and with a cool 
and deliberate air she called on her former mistress. 

Madame le Brun lived on a second floor in a quiet house. 
She was a widow of forty odd, a thin, nervous, eccentric 
lady, who received Marie like an utter stranger. 

“ Madame does not seem to recognise me,” said Marie, 
rather huffed. “ I am Marie.” 

“ Oh ! dear me, Marie! yes, I remember, she was very 
stout, and something happened to her foot.” 

“ I am Marie,” said Marie again. 

“ Yes, yes, I see. I liked her very much.” 

This seemed favorable, though it was rather puzzling, 
when one was present, to be treated like a past and absent in¬ 
dividual. However, Marie was determined to take the best 
view of the case, and she observed strongly : 

“ Madame says she likes me, but if I were to believe Char¬ 
lotte—” 

“ Ho not mention her,” interrupted Madame le Brun, 
shivering, “ I detest her.” 

Marie beamed again. 

“ Hear me, what can the poor thing have done ?” she 
asked, seeming shocked. 

“ All sorts of things,” replied Madame le Brun; “she 
has broken china and denied it.” 

Marie shook her head, and confessed that to break and 
then deny was very like Charlotte. 

“ Besides, I am sick of her,” resumed Madame le Brun. 

“ And that is the best reason of all,” said Marie, with a 
triumphant chuckle; “ I suppose Madame does not mean to 
keep her.” 

“ No, indeed.” 

“ And when shall I return to Madame ?” asked Marie, 
with her most insinuating smile. 


108 


SEVEN YEAES. 


“ I shall let you know,” graciously replied Madame le 
Brun ; “ good morning.” 

“ And not a word about the charcoal or the fricasse,” tri- 
ufnphantly thought Marie, going home; “ I knew it was all 
invention—I knew it.” 

Marie could scarcely keep in for the rest of the day, and 
when evening came and Charlotte returned from Madame le 
Brun’s, and imprudently indulged in the following bit of 
boasting: 

“ I wonder, Marie, you could not succeed in attaching 
Madame le Brun to you ! She might have been a most useful 
friend. I do nothing to please her, nothing beyond my duty, 
and she is always so gracious and civil. She liked my fricass<§ 
chicken very much to-day. 1 Charlotte, you excel in that,’ 
she said, 1 and as to how you make five bushels of charcoal 
last three weeks—why, it amazes me.’ ” 

WhSn we say Charlotte spoke thus, and Marie heard her, 
Marie could not help saying : 

“ I think, Charlotte, I shall be rendering you a service by 
telling you the truth. I called on Madame le Brun to-day; 
I had a little private and confidential conversation with her, 
and I was sorry to learn she was not quite pleased with you. 
The china you have broken, and your denial of it, have 
amazed her, to say the least. Charcoal and fricasse are not 
every thing, my dear Charlotte—there must be trust, there 
must be trust; and, to make a long story short, as I am to re¬ 
sume my services with Madame le Brun, the best thing you 
can do is to drop off of your own accord, and not be told to 
stay at home.” 

“ Oh! that is it, is it ?” said Charlotte, with a freezing 
smile; “you think me easily managed, I perceive, but all I 
say is this : you do not know Madame le Brun, and I do; at 
least, I think so. She told me you had been there to-day. 
She made no mystery of it, I promise you.” 

“ Yes, yes, I know,” said Marie, with a prim smile.” 

“ Bear me, who can be ringing at this hour ?” exclaimed 
Madame la Roche. “ It sounds like Baptiste’s ring,—but it 
cannot be Baptiste.” 

“ Oh, no ! ” said Fanny, rising to open the door, “ it is 
not Baptiste.” 

It was not Baptiste, but a round-faced buxom woman, in a 
white cap, who asked “ if Charlotte lived there.” 

“ You might say Madame,” put in Charlotte, from her 
chair. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


109 


“ Madame, if you like,” replied tlie buxom woman, with a 
good-humored smile, “ we will not quarrel about it.” 

II What is your errand ?” asked Madame la Roche, with a 
quiet dignity, which the woman acknowledged by directing to 
her all her further discourse. 

II I -am sent by Madame le Brun,” she said, “ to tell 
Madame Charlotte that here is her money,”—and she laid 
down a few five-franc pieces on the table,—“ and that she need 
not come any more.” 

“ I knew it,” Marie could not help exclaiming, “ I knew 
it; but Madame Charlotte would not believe me—not she! 
Well, well, pride will have a fall! And when am I to call on 
Madame le Brun ?” she added, brightening up. 

“ When you like,” replied the woman, smiling. 

“ Then tell Madame le Brun I shall be with her to-morrow 
at eleven,” said Marie, with dignity. u Tell her that. But 
perhaps you will not see her before that time ? ” 

“ Not see her ! ” said the woman smiling, “ why, I am her 
servant.” 

“ What! ” cried Marie, whilst Charlotte burst into a loud 
laugh. 

“ I say I am her servant,” replied the woman, “ but you 
may come all the same, and if you are the stout old woman 
called Marie, as I suppose, please to bring back the key of the 
dining-room cupboard you took away. Good evening, ladies.” 
And with a cool nod around, the buxom good-humoured woman 
took her leave and closed the door. 

Madame la Roche, confounded that such strange things 
should take place in her presence, uttered not a word. Marie 
stared at the wall opposite her, muttering broken words, in 
which 11 stout old woman ” and “ the key of the dining-room 
cupboard ” recurred three times. Charlotte looked vacantly 
at the three pieces on the table, but she saw them not; and yet, 
of all that had passed, these three coins impressed Fanny 
most. 

“ Fifteen francs ! ” she thought, 11 and I have not more than 
twenty, and our rent is coming on.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

So sore a blow did not, unfortunately, conduce to the peace 
of the little family. Charlotte and Marie threw on each other 
the blame of Madame le Brun’s defection, which might have 


110 


SEVEN YEARS. 


been more safely attributed to that lady’s capricious temper; 
and they left the result to the anxious thoughts of Fanny, who 
from the first had been purse keeper. Matters had been draw¬ 
ing to a crisis for some time, and the young girl was at length 
obliged to speak plainly to Madame la Roche, and tell her 
without disguise in what position they stood. 

Madame la Roche clasped her hands, and looked piteous. 

“No money,” she said, “ and dissension and strife from 
morning till night. Formerly Marie and Charlotte quarrelled ; 
but it was in the kitchen or in the dining-room, and one did 
not hear it always ; and then one had the comfort of knowing 
that they liked it; but now they have nothing else to do, and 
they are ever at it, and we are all together, and I declare my 
head aches with the din.” 

“ Yes, it is tiresome,” apathetically said Fanny. Her heart 
was full of her own troubles, and the annoyances of Madame 
la Roche sounded idle and weak. Besides, Madame la Roche 
had suggested no cure to the great trouble of all—want of 
money, and of this Fanny reminded her gently : 

“ What is to be done, Madame ? ” she asked. “ That my 
god-mother and Marie should quarrel is tiresome; but that 
there should be no money in the house seems worse.” 

“ I suppose it is,” said Madame la Roche, with evident 
distress ; “ well, Fanny, all this quarrelling has set me thinking 
for some time, for really the noise alone is too much, and I 
think now we must act. I shall write a letter, and you must 
take it, to Monsieur Noiret.” 

“ Monsieur Noiret! ” echoed Fanny with a slight start, 
“ he has never come near us, Madame.” 

“ He is like the world, my dear,” sighed Madame la Roche; 
“ yet if he can assist us without detriment to himself, he will do 
so. I shall write the letter, and you will take it. 7 ’ 

Fanny raised no further opposition ; the letter was written, 
and without even inquiring into the nature of its contents, 
the young girl took it to Monsieur Noiret. 

Monsieur Noiret was an old bourgeois of the old school; 
he had lived in comfortable style in a comfortable apartment 
of a house in the Marais, not far from the former residence of 
Madame la Roche. Fanny shunned the street in which Bap¬ 
tiste still resided, and took a turn to reach Monsieur Noiret’s 
dwelling. It was a venerable old mansion, built round a court¬ 
yard, the centre of which was a little garden, with a few young 
lilac trees budding into verdure, for March was nearly over, 
and spring had begun, and with spring flowers, green leaves, 


SEVEN YEARS. 


Ill 


and the song of birds had come. In sunny rooms on the 
second floor resided Monsieur Noiret. A demure-looking ser¬ 
vant, in a close white cap, and with a curious twinkle in her 
grey eyes, answered Fanny’s hesitating ring, and slowly eyed 
her from head to foot. 

“ Monsieur Noiret,” said Fanny. 

“ He is at luncheon,” replied the demure servant. 

“ Can I wait until he has done ? ” 

“ Yes, you may sit here.” 

And Fanny was ushered in, and told to sit down in a green- 
ante room with plain oak chairs. 

“You are very young, if you are come for the place,” said 
the demure servant; “ Monsieur does not like young girls.” 

“ I am not come for the place,” said Fanny, “ I bring a 
letter.” 

“ Oh, a letter ! I thought you were come for the place : 
I am leaving; I am going to get married.” Her grey eyes 
twinkled again as she said it; she seemed in a communicative 
mood. Fanny, however, heard her without apparent emotion 
or interest; a profound apathetic indifference spread for her 
over every high or low detail of life. 

“ Who is there ? ” asked Monsieur Noiret’s voice from 
within. 

“ Fanny, from Madame la Itoche,” said the young girl, ad¬ 
dressing the servant who went in with the message, and pre¬ 
sently came out again and ushered Fanny into a comfortable 
dining-room, painted oak color, and furnished with plain ma¬ 
hogany and red morocco. Before a table covered with a sub¬ 
stantial meal sat Monsieur Noiret. He smiled graciously to 
Fanny, and pointed to a chair. 

“ And what news from Madame la Roche ?” he asked, his 
white teeth shining. 

“ I bring a letter, sir.” 

“A letter!” said Monsieur Noiret, carving the leg ol a 
cold capon ; “ and have you any reason to suppose, my dear, 
that it requires to be read immediately—that it cannot wait 
half an hour, for instance ?” 

“ I think it can wait, sir.” 

“ Well, then, my dear, we will let it wait,” rejoined Mon¬ 
sieur Noiret, making two mouthfuls ol the capon’s limb; “ but 
if reading be injurious to digestion, talking, on the contrary, 
is excellent, and therefore let us talk. Are you married yet ?” 

„ Fanny gave a start like one that receives an unseen blow, 


112 


SEVEN YEARS. 


but soon mastered this involuntary emotion, and said quietly 
enough: 

“No, sir.” 

Monsieur Noiret laid down his knife and fork, and said 
emphatically: 

“Are you not going to marry, Fanny? ” 

“No, sir.” 

“ Tell me all about it,” he resumed. 

“ There is nothing to tell, sir,” rather shortly replied the 
young girl. 

“ I see, I see,—a lovers’ quarrel, soon to be made up.” 

“No, sir,” deliberately said Fanny; “for excellent reasons 
I broke off my engagement with Bajffiste, and he, availing 
himself of his liberty, is going to marry another girl three days 
hence. Making up is out of the question.” 

Monsieur Noiret whistled, and finished his meal in pro¬ 
found silence. When he had drunk his last glass of claret, and 
vainly pressed Fanny to drink with him and take a biscuit, he 
deliberately opened and read Madame la Roche’s letter. He 
smiled as he finished it, and folded it up, then rising he said 
to the young girl: “ Fanny, you have never seen this place of 
mine ; come and have a look at it. Marianne, who has the keys, 
shall show us the way.” 

Fanny would rather have said nay, but fearing to displease 
the friend to whom Madame la Roche had appealed for assist¬ 
ance, she rose in token of acquiescence with Monsieur Noiret’s 
wish. Marianne took a long time to hear her master’s sum¬ 
mons, which was the more surprising, that having been stand¬ 
ing behind the dining-room door the whole time of his conver¬ 
sation with Fanny, she must have been aware of his intentions. 
When she came at length, she had to spend another quarter 
of an hour in hunting for the keys, and when the keys were 
found, she plainly asked Monsieur Noiret what he wanted 
them for. 

He smiled, showed his two rows of sound white teeth, and 
patting her cheek, said kindly : 

“ Get married, my dear, get married.” 

Thus lectured, Marianne showed the way, and her master 
and Fanny followed. 

There was wealth and comfort in Monsieur Noiret’s home. 
The salon was large, handsome, and substantial; the bed¬ 
rooms were comfortable and plain ; the kitchen, the laundry, 
and all their appurtenances, were models of cleanliness and in¬ 
genious contrivance. To crown all, Monsieur Noiret took care 


SEVEN YEARS. 


113 


to display to Fanny’s view a goodly store of household pro¬ 
visions, and a handsome stock of shining old plate, not to 
speak of a large mahogany press piled up high with choice 
damask linen. 

“ This is my town house,” he said, when the survey was 
over ; “ my country house you must see later. It is more of 
a farm than of a villa, with cows, calves, hens, chickens, and 
rather a pleasant orchard full of fruit; but, as I said, you will 
see that later, and now, Marianne, you may take the keys and 
leave us.” 

Marianne would rather have stayed, hut her master’s eye 
enjoined obedience, and this time he secured privacy by send¬ 
ing her on an errand. 

When Monsieur. Noiret found.himself once more alone with 
Fanny in the dining-room, he began pacing it up and down, 
and taking a grave look, he said, addressing the young girl, 
who remained standing: 

“ And now, Fanny, we will come to business. Do you 
know wha^ there was in the letter of Madame la Roche? ” 

u No, sir, I do not.” 

“ Then I will tell you. It seems my two old friends, 
Marie and Charlotte, would be better apart, and Madame la 
Roche, hearing that Marianne is going to get married and 
leave me to solitude, expects me to take either—she allows 
me my choice—of the two old ladies. Now, Fanny, you have 
seen my household. I leave it to you to say if either stout 
old Maria or rheumatic old Charlotte is equal to the task of 
keeping everything in the order I like, without having another 
servant under her.” 

Fanny was obliged to acquiesce in the correctness of this 
remark. Monsieur Noiret, still walking up and down the 
room, continued: 

“ I always said that, rather than have a servant and a 
housekeeper, I would marry ; but I am, and have always been, 
particular. I like youth, beauty, health, a good heart, and a 
good temper. You have them all,” added Monsieur Noiret, 
stopping short before Fanny, “and I have always had a liking 
for you. If you will be my wife, say so. I shall provide for 
the family you leave; take either Charlotte or Marie to keep 
you company; make you mistress of all I have whilst I live, 
and of half my property after my death.” 

Monsieur Noiret spoke seriously, with his rich brown eyes 
fastened full on Fanny’s face. The young girl heard him first 
with a mute surprise that suspended every other feeling, then 


114 


SEVEN YEAES. 


a painful blush overspread her countenance, and coldly turning 
her head away, she said quietly: 

“ I am very much obliged to you, sir, but I cannot be your 
wife.” 

“ My dear child,” said Monsieur Noiret, with his unpleas¬ 
ant smile, “ I did not mean you to decide so hastily. This 
proposal expresses no new thought of mine, though it be new 
to you. It requires reflection and consideration, my dear. 
You feel sore, no doubt, about your former lover, and no won¬ 
der ; but remember that I am not asking you for love. I labor 
under no illusions. I am strong, and I enjoy good health, but 
lam old; I know it, and if I wish for a young wife, it is be¬ 
cause I like youth, but I do not expect youth to be fond of me. 
I. believe, however, that I could make you happy; I have the 
means and the inclination. You are a good little thing, and 
in time you would like me as much as I should wish or expect 
you to like me. You see I am reasonable; besides, I give you 
time to think over it. Say a week. With regard to Madame 
la Roche’s letter, tell her simply what you have seen, and how 
impossible it is for me to comply with her request. And now, 
my dear,” added Monsieur Noiret, “ as I have kept you some 
time, and as you seem anxious to go, I will delay you no longer. 
A week hence I shall call on Madame la Roche and hear your 
answer.” 

“You may hear it now, sir,” said Fanny: “I cannot be 
your wife.” 

“ My dear,” replied Monsieur Noiret, with a smile, “ you 
know nothing about it yet. This day week I shall call on 
Madame la Roche.” And with his politest smile and bow, he 
saw her to the door. 

A reply, that would have disturbed the excellent opinion 
Monsieur Noiret had conceived of Fanny’s temper, rose to the 
young girl’s lips, but she remembered that she did not possess 
the right to alienate from Madame la Roche a friend, such as 
he was, and she held her peace. 

Yet she went home in a strange fever; Baptiste was going 
to marry, she had read his name and that of his betrothed on 
the bill of the Mairie; after to-morrow he was to marry in the 
little parish church in which they were to have been united; 
but still this did not seem such utter separation from him as to 
be asked to become Monsieur Noiret’s wife. To belong to that 
old man, to live with him in his comfortable and stately, but 
rather gloomy, home, to move in another circle, and become a 
member of another world, to be, in short, Madame Noiret, 


SEVEN YEARS. 


115 


seemed a change so strange and so entire, that no extremity, 
Fanny thought, could bring her to it. 

In this mood she reached home, and found Madame la 
Roche looking on hopelessly, whilst Marie and Charlotte, to 
whom she had unfortunately confided the contents of her note 
to Monsieur Noiret, were both vehemently declaring, that no 
consideration should induce them to enter that gentleman’s 
house, no matter in what capacity. 

Fanny, who had got to be a little bit of a misanthrope of 
late, smiled with some bitterness at the useless strife. 

“ You need not trouble, either of you,” she said, coldly; 
li Monsieur Noiret will have neither Marie nor Charlotte, unless 
on a condition with which I shall certainly not comply.” 

“ A condition ! what condition, my dear,” asked Madame 
la Roche. 

Fanny involuntarily grew pale then red, then she said 
with forced calmness: 

“ He wants me to be his wife.” 

“His wife!” exclaimed Madame la Roche, “that proud old 
Monsieur Noiret wants to marry you ? ” 

“ The condescension of the offer had not struck me,” said 
Fanny, hurt at this view of the subject. 

“ Nor need it,” put in Charlotte ; “ my god-daughter could 
have better offers any day.” 

“ If I had not been a fool,” said Marie, “ I might have been 
Madame Noiret years ago. Well, child, you will scarcely 
refuse that, will you ? ” 

“ It is a good offer,” approvingly said Madame la Roche. 

Fanny heard them with amazement; she had fancied that 
they would be indignant and angry, and their complacency in 
what revolted her, was a blow she had not anticipated. 

“ So you all wish me to go away and leave you.” 

“ I do not, I do not,” cried Charles, starting up from his 
toys on the floor, and springing on her lap; “ do not go, 
Fanny, do not.” 

Fanny kissed him, and cried as if her heart would break ; 
for it seemed to her in the bitterness of that hour as if that 
child’s affection were the only disinterested liking left to her. 
Love had forsaken her, and old affection seemed sordid and 
low. She kissed Charles, dried her eyes, and said coldly : 

“ I will not marry Monsieur Noiret.” 


116 


SEVEN YEARS. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Youth is severe; no sad knowledge of life, no bitter ex¬ 
perience of human weakness have taught it the virtue and the 
value of leniency. 

Fanny was hurt, and hurt to the very heart, to find that 
Madame la Roche'and the two women, who had so long been 
her devoted and faithful friends, could wish her to become 
Monsieur Noiret’s wife. She forgot the advantages they saw 
in this union for her ; she forgot that Marie and Charlotte had 
never looked on Baptiste with particular favour, and that, 
more or less advanced in life as they all three were, they 
could not think so much about Monsieur Noiret’s wrinkles 
and years as she did. Indeed, to do them justice, they saw 
chiefly that Monsieur Noiret was rich, that he could give 
Fanny every comfort, and many luxuries, and though they 
were also conscious that by this fortunate marriage peace and 
comfort would be restored to their own narrowed circle, this 
thought came second, even as Fanny’s happiness came first. 
But the advantages they prized so highly Fanny thought 
nothing of, and she could see but one cogent motive for the 
open or indirect methods they took to press her “ into selling 
herself to an old man,” as she bitterly called it. 

If Madame la Roche sighed and said : 

“ My dear, he would make you so comfortable.” 

“ And he would pay the rent,” was Fanny’s internal reply. 

If Charlotte looked grand and suggested : 

“ Would you feel nothing to hear yourself called ‘ Mad¬ 
ame Noiret ? ’ ” 

Fanny moodily thought: 

“ You want me to become Madame Noiret, that you, as 
Madame Noiret’s god-mother, may rule Monsieur Noiret’s 
house.” 

If Marie hinted: 

“ Child, show your spirit to that low Baptiste.” 

Fanny felt angrily : 

“ She wants to drive me into it, that she may remain here 
alone and in comfort with Madame la Roche.” In short, in 
every word that was uttered, in every look that was given, 
Fanny read self-interest. This was but the natural reaction of 
a heart too long indulged, of a temper that had never been 
controlled, of a happy youth that had never known trouble or 
sorrow. But this misanthropic mood could not last long; 


SEVEN YEARS. 


117 


Fanny soon returned to the natural tenderness of her heart 
and gentleness of her disposition, and then, indeed, no longer 
looking with prejudiced eyes on the advice she got, she began 
to endure the strange torment of knowing that there was a 
remedy to the many cares and troubles she saw, that this 
remedy lay in her own hands, but that she would not use it. 

The little family were in great trouble; Madame la 
Roche’s four hundred francs a year and Fanny’s earnings 
could not support five persons; rent was coming due, and 
money v r as growing short; distress had the effect of subduing 
for a while the ceaseless quarrels of Charlotte and Marie; 
they grumbled indeed, but in low dismal voices that had 
scarcely a touch of the old liveliness. Madame la Roche said 
nothing, but she looked at Charles, the only merry one 
amongst them all, and wiped away silent tears from her pale 
face. To look on and to know, “ with a word I could make 
them all happy, I could turn that grief to joy,” was a trial 
indeed : a trial on which Monsieur Noiret had shrewdly cal¬ 
culated as a chance of success. His liking for Fanny, which 
had come with her beauty, was the liking old men feel for 
young girls. He had too much sense to expect her to be fond 
of him, but he had too little faith in the love of youth not to 
think that, if she married him, he would easily make her for¬ 
get Baptiste and all such early dreams ; a handsome dress 
now and then, a cashmere shawl, with even a sprinkling of 
diamonds if necessary,—Monsieur Noiret had his mother’s 
jewel-box in store,—were in his opinion palliatives to every 
feminine affliction, especially when the sufferer was a poor 
working girl, raised from the obscurity of a dressmaker to the 
dignity of a young bourgeoise. 

About Monsieur Noiret’s thoughts Fanny did not trouble 
herself much; the sad faces at home w T ere arguments more 
powerful than the temptation of his gifts, but against both 
rose a reproachful image : the sorrowful look of Baptiste, that 
seemed to follow her saying : “ Did you leave me for this % ” 

“ I will have done with that at least,” desperately thought 
Fanny, as she rose on the Saturday morning that was to see 
Baptiste wedded ; “ I will see him married to that girl, who¬ 
ever she may be, and forget him as if he had never been.” 

Without breathing a word of her purpose, and merely 
going out as if to work as usual, Fanny took her way to the 
church in which the ceremony w r as to be performed. It was 
an old church which has since been pulled down to make way 
for modern improvements: the gloomy, gothic building had 


118 


SEVEN YE AES. 


few claims to beauty of any kind; the ceiling was low, the 
floor was damp and dark with age; the pictures on the walls 
had a dingy look ; the altar looked poor and bare ; only a few 
old men and women were listening to the mass which a priest 
was saying. Fanny went on to the vestry, and calmly asked 
the sacristan at what hour Monsieur Watt was to be married. 

“ At eleven,” he replied, “ and at the high altar.” 

She thanked him, and went and chose her place in the 
right aisle,—a chair behind one of the pillars,—thence she 
could see, unseen, whatever passed in the nave. 

It was ten ; Fanny had only an hour to wait. Only ! is 
that the word, indeed, wherewith to describe the heart-sick 
expectation with which she sat and prayed and wept, and felt 
ten times over that it was best for her to fly and leave the 
place, and not see again the faithless lover whom she had no 
right to blame, yet could not absolve? For ever came the 
secret cry : “ he might have loved me more : he need not have 
forsaken me so soon.” 

In the mean while preparations for the forthcoming cere¬ 
mony were being made ; the altar was decorated ; velvet 
cushions fringed with gold were placed for the bridal pair ; 
velvet chairs were set in rows for the bridal party ; eleven 
struck,—the priest in white vestments issued from the vestry, 
and up the nave a rustling of silk and a sound of steps an¬ 
nounced the approach of the “ noce.” Fanny felt very sick, 
she closed her eyes, and leaning her head against the cold pil¬ 
lar, she would not see. At length she gathered courage. 
“ What did I come here for, and lose a day’s work, but to 
know? ” she asked of herself, and opening her eyes she looked at 
the altar. The bride and bridegroom were kneeling before it: 
the bride was a pretty girl in white, who looked all the pret¬ 
tier for her veil and orange wreath, but Fanny did not heed 
her ; with fixed amazed eyes and parted lips she looked at the 
bridegroom—a short, slim, and sallow young man, not in the 
least like Baptiste. 

“ There is some mistake,” thought Fanny, relieved at not 
seeing what she had dreaded, but pained at a delay that spoke 
of a new pang to be undergone. But as she cast a hasty and 
impatient look on the bridal party, as on persons concerned 
in doings that no longer interested her, Fanny could scarcely 
repress a scream on perceiving Baptiste a beholder, like her¬ 
self, of the marriage ceremony. 

He stood grave and sad, looking on with folded arms and 
bent look. He was attired in holiday black, and was evi- 


SEVEN YEARS. 


119 


dently a member of the bridal party. The truth flashed across 
Fanny’s mind. The bridegroom was his cousin and name¬ 
sake, of whom she had often heard him speak, and who had 
probably come down to Paris to get married. The bride 
might now be who and what she liked; Fanny’s heart beat, 
her head swam, and leaning her forehead on the chair before 
her, she lost consciousness. The sound of voices behind hei 
wakened the young girl. 

“ She is praying ! ” whispered one voice. 

“ She is sleeping,” said another voice, in a louder key, 
“ and it is a shame to come to a church to sleep in it.” 

With a start Fanny looked up; the lights on the altar 
were extinguished : bride, bridegroom, and bridal party had 
vanished. It was as if she had dreamed it all, so quiet and 
silent was now the old church. But too vivid for a dream 
rose before her the scene she had witnessed. Fanny did not even 
go to the vestry to inquire: there was no need ; Baptiste was 
not married, she knew it, she felt it; she thought herself fool¬ 
ish and mad to have even for a moment believed that, within 
a month of their parting, he could have thought of another 
woman, and, without heeding the owners of the two voices 
who had passed such strictures on her supposed slumbers, she 
sent a fervent thanksgiving to the Almighty, then rose from 
her chair, and swiftly left the church. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Light and giddy with feverish joy, Fanny skipped down 
the church steps, like one treading on air. She felt thoroughly 
happy; she had not a thought, not a care; everything was 
bright and cheerful, from the grey sky that lowered above the 
house roofs, to the muddy pavement along which she tripped 
light and gay as a little fairy. 

On her way home Fanny passed a toy-shop ; she had 
passed it going, but for obvious reasons she had not seen it; 
now she saw it, and thought of poor little Charles at home, 
who had said the evening before : 

“ Grandmamma, why do I not have any toys now ? ” and 
of Madame la Roche’s sad answer : “ Because we are poor, 
child.” 

Fanny thought of this, and her heart was full. She put 
her hand in her pocket and felt a five-franc piece in it. It *was 
more than enough; Fanny walked into the shop, and delib- 


120 


SEVEN YEARS.. 


erately purchased a horse and car, for twenty-five sous. She 
walked out thinking how pleased Charles would be, and how 
kind Madame la Roche would enjoy his pleasure; then she 
wondered if she could not please her too, in a more direct 
fashion. She looked in at a pastry-cook’s ; that was Madame 
la Roche’s favourite tart in the window. 

Fanny could not resist it, she w r alked in, and came out 
with the tart, which proved a more expensive purchase than 
even the horse and car. “ But neither Marie nor Charlotte 
will touch a mite of it,” thought Fanny, “ they will leave it 
all to Madame la Roche and the child; what shall I bring to 
them ? ” 

She hit on no better expedient than to Avalk in to the char- 
cutier’s shop. The charcutier bears but a faint likeness to his 
English brother, the dealer in pork, bacon, and ham. The 
charcutier sells neither butter nor poultry, and he scorns eggs 
and rabbits. His shop is adorned, without, by fresco paint¬ 
ings of what may be called the Dutch school. Plump 
sausages and hams, with the most tempting mixture of fat and 
lean, show the triumph of the painter’s art. Within, mirrors, 
marbles, and delicious viands fulfil the promises held forth 
without. The buxom charcutiere, with her white cap, rosy 
cheeks, red lips, round figure, and white apron and tucker, is 
herself a fair proof of the excellence and solidity of the goods 
in which she deals. » These are most seducingly displayed on 
the white marble counter behind which she stands smiling. 
Pptted meats, quivering jellies, compounds of pork and veal, 
mysterious meat cheeses, fair pink sausages ready for the hiss¬ 
ing frying-pan, tender pork cutlets, dincle farcie, cold veal, all 
lie there before you adorned—as if such charms needed height¬ 
ening—with pink paper roses and white paper frills, daintily 
cut. Of the strings of black pudding hanging about, of the 
trophies in the shape ,of goodly hams which the Avails display, 
of petit lard, even though it come from Strasbourg, we say 
nothing : they are there to fill up. The counter and its dain¬ 
ties will ever absorb the love and attention of the gently gor¬ 
mandizing sons and daughters of Paris. 

Into such a palace did Fanny enter. Dinde farcie \\ r as her 
extravagant choice, and Avhen she left the shop she had ten 
sous in her pocket. But Fanny Avas not in a mood to trouble 
herself about money: she AA r as in a temper to defy care, to 
laugh at the future, to rejoice in the present, and make those 
around her rejoice. Tired and laden, but glad Avith all that, 
Fanny Avent home. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


121 


It was the child who admitted her. On seeing the horse 
and car he uttered a scream of delight, at once took possession 
of them, and ran off with his prize to the room of Madame la 
Roche. She came out amazed to see who had been so gener¬ 
ous, and found Fanny in the act of laying the tart on a plate. 
She caught a glimpse too of the dinde farcie, and unable to 
understand the meaning of all this, she asked with mild sur¬ 
prise : 

“ My dear child, what has brought you back from your 
work % ” 

I did not go to work,” said Fanny, blushing. 

“ And how did you get those things ? Who gave them 
to you ? ” 

“ I bought them,” answered Fanny, hanging down her head. 

Madame la Roche felt and looked bewildered, and Char¬ 
lotte and Marie, who now came out, felt and looked like their 
mistress. Charles alone, who was whipping his horse and car 
about the room, shouted and laughed without surprise. 

“ I know you like this, Madame,” continued Fanny, point¬ 
ing to the tart, “ so I brought it to you. This,” she added, 
designating the meat, “ is for Marie and my god-mother. It 
is long since we had a treat. I hope I have not done wrong % 
I do not think I have.” 

“ There is no harm in it,” despondingly replied Madame 
la Roche, whose pale cheek bore the traces of recent tears, 
“ but this is scarcely a day for rejoicing.” 

“ I do not suppose Fanny thinks we are going to eat meat 
on Saturday, a fast-day,” gravely observed Charlotte. 

“ I never thought about that,” replied Fanny, disconcerted 
at having forgotten it. 

“ And I think,” said Marie, “ I think it is very lucky the 
la^^ord, who has just called in to insult Madame because she 
caiH^t pay her rent the very day it is due, I think it is lucky 

« s did not meet Fanny coming up the staircase laden with 
ys, and cakes, and tarts, and capons, and turkeys, instead of 
being at her work like a sensible girl.” 

“ Do not be severe,” sighed Madane la Roche, “ the poor 
child meant kindly, and that is my favourite tart, and you 
know how fond you are of dinde farcie ; and look at Charles, 
the dear little fellow is beside himself with joy. She meant it 
kindly, and if we had only money for the rent, I dare say we 
should enjoy it very much.” 

But she sighed again as she came to the close of this long 
speech, and her eyes filled with tears. 

6 ' 


122 


SEVEN YEARS. 


The joy of Fanny was considerably damped by the way 
in which her treat was received. She put her dainties away 
without a word, whilst Marie said with marked emphasis : 

“ Have you got any money, child % ” 

“ I have not,” said Fanny. 

“No more have we,” austerely said Charlotte. “ A strange 
time, my dear child, for such extravagant fancies, and meat on 
a Saturday.” 

“ I have got a few francs left,” mildly put in Madame la 
Roche. 

Fanny sighed deeply. The weight of care she had awhile 
forgotten sank on her,anew. Baptiste was not married, true; 
Baptiste was still fond of her, she felt sure of it: but grim 
poverty faced her, and the helpless women and the uncon¬ 
scious child, none the less. 

She rose, and said resignedly : 

“ I shall go and work; better half a day’s work than none.” 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

Fanny was ready to go out the next morning, when a 
sharp ring was heard at the door: she went and opened: it 
was the rough and grisly porter, with his cotton handkerchief 
tied round his heavy brows. 

“ He is come about the rent,” thought Fanny, trembling 
from head to foot; but she none the less civilly requested the 
porter to come in. 

“ Why should I come in % ” he asked suspiciously. “ I 
have only come up to tell you a bit of my mind ; people who 
are so grand—” 

“ Do not, pray do not,” interrupted Fanny, casting a ty»id 
look towards the inner rooms, and evidently afraid lest 
Madame la Roche should hear; “ I hope yet that we shali 
find the means of paying that money, though God knows 
how,” she added in a low despairing voice. 

“ You had better find the means quickly then,” said the 
porter, roughly, “ for I may as well tell you that Mademoi¬ 
selle is in the house, and means to pay you a visit.” 

“ Mademoiselle ! who is Mademoiselle 1 ” asked Fanny. 

“ The landlord’s sister, and let me tell you that, though 
she makes less noise than her brother, who storms and raves, 
she is a great deal more troublesome than he is. That is all 
I had to say. Good morning.” He nodded and left her dis- 


SEVEN YE AES. 


123 


tracted at the prospect of the coming visit. She went to 
Charlotte and Marie, and told them what the porter had said; 
but they could give her no counsel. Their calm lives had 
been spent in the peaceful bosom of prosperity ; they knew 
nothing of poverty; they had no practical experience of debts, 
or of the poor ways and means by which troublesome appli¬ 
cations may be warded off. To pay what was owing seemed 
the only plan offered to them. 

“ But I have got no money,” said Fanny. 

“ No, child, and you never will have whilst you go and 
buy toys and cakes, and capons and turkeys,” said Marie. 

“ I cannot imagine w T hat possessed her yesterday,” re¬ 
marked Charlotte. “ She is as stingy as can be on other 
days, but yesterday being a fast day, she must needs buy 
dinde farcie.” 

“ Do not, pray do not,” entreated Fanny, “I hear a step 
on the staircase, it must be that lady ! What shall we do ? 
what shall we do ? ” 

A mild modest ring was heard even as she spoke; her 
face red and burning with shame, Fanny went and opened. 

It was Mademoiselle, the landlord’s sister, and the joint 
proprietress of the house. A meeker and more demure-look- 
ing lady Fanny had never seen. Her fair hair was smoothed 
away from her high and white forehead; her drooping lids 
modestly veiled her blue eyes; decorum was written in her 
grave and mild features, in her slightly bending figure, in her 
subdued manners. 

“ Madame la Roche,” she said, mildly. 

“ She will come presently,” faltered Fanny ; “ will you 
sit down and wait 1 ” 

“ With pleasure,” sedately replied Mademoiselle. She 
took a chair, and looked benevolently at Charlotte and Marie. 

“ A fine morning,” she said. 

“ Oh, very,” replied Marie, brightening at this amicable 
opening ; and she kindly added : “ Madame la Roche will be 
pleased to see Mademoiselle: the gentleman who came yes¬ 
terday was not civil.” 

“ Indeed : ” said Mademoiselle. “ Ah, well, my brother 
is a little noisy at times ; I like to do things cpiietly.” 

“ Of course,” said Marie, “ so much better'; especially,” 
she added, with her most gracious smile, “ when people, 
though not able, are willing.” 

“ To be sure, quite willing,” said Mademoiselle. 

“ Most willing ! ” emphatically echoed Marie. 


124 : 


SEVEN TEARS. 


(( We shall settle this little matter without trouble, ’ said 
Mademoiselle, casting a quiet look around her. “ I under¬ 
stand Madame la Roche has been well off. I have no doubt 
she has kept some lady-like trinkets, or scraps of lace, that 
may help us to come to a proper understanding.” 

Marie stared, but did not answer. Mademoiselle con¬ 
tinued : 

“ It is a settled plan with my brother and me never to allow 
rent to run on ; but whereas he insists on money, I am satisfied 
with valuables. A jewel, a watch, a chain, nay, even a piece 
of furniture will pay a quarter’s rent: if the value exceeds 
the amount due, it is deducted from the next quarter.” 

“ If Madame la Roche had such valuables,” replied Marie, 
firing up, “ she would not wait to be asked for her rent in 
order to pay it. She would sell and pledge them, and no one 
would know her poverty.” 

“ Then if Madame la Roche cannot pay the rent we must 
part,” suavely said Mademoiselle; “ we never allow rent to 
run on.” 

Trembling with indignation, Marie was going to answer, 
when Madame la Roche appeared. 

With quiet dignity she bowed to Mademoiselle, and re¬ 
quested to know her errand. Mademoiselle mildly answered 
that she had come for the rent. 

“ I have no money now,” said Madame la Roche, in a low 
voice. 

“ And no valuables ? ” asked Mademoiselle. 

“ None.” ' 

“ Then I am sorry for it: we must part.” 

“ And you will detain the furniture 1 ” said Madame la 
Roche. 

“ I see no other means.” 

“Very well, Madame,” replied Madame la Roche, in a 
tone that said : “ Your errand is over.” 

Mademoiselle felt it, for she rose and cast around a look 
that was scarcely pleasant spite its meekness. Fanny, who 
had looked on with helpless calmness, opened the door to let 
her out, and thereby spared Monsieur Noiret the trouble of 
ringing. That gentleman and Mademoiselle exchanged excla¬ 
mations on meeting : they were acquainted, it appeared. 

“ How very fortunate! ” said Monsieur Noiret, “ I have 
been looking for you these three weeks. Pray allow me to 
exchange a few words with you—I am sure my good friend 
Madame la Roche will raise no objection.” 


SEVEN YEARS. 


125 


Madame la Roche said he might command her place, and 
was going to leave the room, but he would not allow it. 

“ It is no secret,” he said, with his ready smile, “ only a 
bit of news for Mademoiselle. I have seen your nephew,” he 
added, turning towards her. 

Mademoiselle’s blue eyes lit with a fiery spark. 

“ Where—how—when ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ In the Palais Royal, with three young fellows, a month 
ago.” 

The intelligence brought no great amount of pleasure or 
sweetness to Mademoiselle’s face. Her nephew, a spend¬ 
thrift, a gambler, and a runaway, was a thorn in her side, a 
sore spot in her life. 

“ I shall stop him yet,” she said, clenching tightly an 
ample reticule which she carried about on rent days, and which 
her lodgers knew well. “ I shall stop him yet. And you, 
Madame,” she added, looking sourly at Madame la Roche, 
“ please to bear my last words in mind, and to have those 
eighty francs by to-morrow morning. No rents run on here.” 

“Dear me!” said Monsieur Noiret, seeming surprised, 
“ would you prefer the eighty francs to-day 'i ” Mademoiselle 
looked at him. 

“ Of course I should,” she at length answered. 

Monsieur Noiret put four Napoleons in her hand. Mad¬ 
emoiselle counted and weighed them, gave him a receipt in 
exchange, and walked out without a word. 

“ I am so glad I was able to relieve you of that troublesome 
woman,” said Monsieur Noiret to Madame la Roche, “ she is 
a leech. Did she not propose purchasing or exchanging 
something ? ” 

“ She did ! ” cried Marie, who was bursting with wrath, 
u she did. As if Madame kept valuables when she wanted 
money ! ” 

“ Monsieur Noiret, I am obliged to you,” said Madame la 
Roche, whose tears were flowing, “ but God only knows when 
I shall be able to pay you.” 

“ A trifle, a trifle! ” said Monsieur Noiret, glancing at 
Fanny ; “ I came at this early hour on account of that young 
creature.” 

Fanny, who was sitting apart with Charles on her lap, 
looked up on being thus indirectly addressed. 

“ The fact is,” said Monsieur Noiret, “ that Madame des 
Granges, a friend of mine, has asked me for a clever seam- 


126 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


stress, and as I believe her terms are better than those Fanny 
gets, I came early to give our little friend the intimation.’’ 

Fanny’s face cleared at once. If Monsieur Noiret came 
to procure her work, must it not be that he had given up that 
odious plan of marriage ? She thanked him with a warmth 
that made him smile, and receiving from him a line for 
Madame des Granges, she exclaimed eagerly that she would 
go at once; and at once, glad perhaps to escape from his 
presence, she went. 

The tide had turned to prosperity. Madame des Granges 
received Fanny very favourably ; agreed to pay her one-third 
more than she received from the dressmaker who gave her oc¬ 
casional work, and finally secured her services for the next 
day. 

A weight of care seemed removed from Fanny as she came 
home that evening. The rent was paid ; three months’ peace 
was secured; she had found profitable work ; and, crowning 
blessing of all, Baptiste was not married. No wonder she 
climbed up the four steep flights of stairs with a light and 
happy heart. 

She found Madame la Roche in smiles, and Charlotte and 
Marie gracious. 

“ Anything new ? ” she asked gaily. 

“ No,” replied Charlotte, “ nothing, unless that Monsieur 
Noiret is to come this evening.” 

Fanny felt the blow, but tried to smile. 

“ A most extraordinary piece of good fortune that he 
should have dropped in just in time to pay Madame’s rent,” 
said Marie. 

“ I suppose you mean to lend Madame the money,” cor¬ 
rected Charlotte. 

“ You may call that lending,” said Marie, strongly, “ I do 
not.” 

“ I do,” said Charlotte; “ Madame would scorn it other¬ 
wise.” 

“ I am past scorning,” said Madame la Roche, with a resig¬ 
nation not free from bitterness; “ the hand of God is on me, 
and I yield to what I cannot prevent; I submit to humilia¬ 
tions I have no right and no power to reject.” 

Fanny was moved to the very heart. 

“ Dear Madame,” said she, going up to her former protec¬ 
tress, and taking her hands as she sat down at her feet; u dear 
Madame, all is not over : if Monsieur Noiret has been so kind 
as to lend you that money, cannot I work and pay it back ? ” 


SEVEN YE AES. 


127 


“ Fudge,” said Marie, “ you cannot.” 

This was but too true. Fanny felt the sting and started, 
and vainly tried to look brave. 

“ I know what Fanny can do,” mildly said Charlotte ; u she 
can give Monsieur Noiret his answer, and not have him coming 
here any more and insulting Madame.” 

Fanny turned very pale : it seemed as if a net were draw¬ 
ing round her, and tightening her on every side. 

Madame la Roche looked up, and said with some dignity: 

u Charlotte and Marie, we will have no more of this. Mon¬ 
sieur Noiret lent me that money of his own accord : I beg that 
he may come here or not, at his pleasure, and that you will 
not tease or torment Fanny. She has said she would not mar¬ 
ry him ; that is enough.” 

“ Did you tell him so, Madame ? ” asked Fanny, brighten¬ 
ing with sudden hope. 

<£ No, my dear,” hesitatingly replied Madame la Roche, “ I 
have not told him so, but he has given me to understand that 
he would like to come and see me now and then; I have no 
doubt you will have more than one opportunity of letting him 
see and feel your meaning.” 

The head of Fanny sank despondently on her bosom, she 
clasped her hands with a troubled look, that did not escape 
Marie or Charlotte; the poor girl was beginning to hesitate, 
but she struggled against her own 'weakness, and saying with 
assumed calmness, u I shall never be Monsieur Noiret’s wife,” 
she rose and prepared the evening meal. 

Monsieur Noiret’s plans w T ere carefully laid : he had calcu¬ 
lated his chances well. He would not tease or torment Fanny, 
but he would not let her forget him either. To be an invisi¬ 
ble benefactor, dropping a quarter’s rent, and then vanishing 
conveniently, until he could again be useful, by no means 
formed part of Monsieur Noiret’s schemes. 

He came that evening, and spent a quiet hour with Madame 
la Pioche. He scarcely looked at Fanny, who took care to 
keep apart. When he spoke to her, his manner was not that 
of an accepted or of a rejected lover. It was both cool and 
calm, and gave her no right to complain or show mistrust. At 
nine he rose and took his leave. 

u Good evening, my dear Madame,” said he, kissing the 
hand of Madame la Roche, u I shall soon call again. Good 
evening, Charlotte. Good evening, Marie, we are old friends, 
eh ! Good night, little Fanny. I shall soon call again.” 

The door had scarcely closed upon him, and Fanny had 


128 


SEVEN YEARS. 


scarcely breathed, relieved at his departure, when Charlotte 
said thoughtfully : 

“A fine old gentleman ! ” 

“ Old ! ” echoed Marie, “ Monsieur Noiret is quite a young 
man.” 

“ Ay, ay,” smiled Charlotte, “ he is an old friend of 
yours.” 

“ I cannot allow this,” said Madame la Roche, distracted¬ 
ly, “ I really cannot. If you must needs quarrel about some¬ 
thing, pray look out for another bane besides Monsieur Noiret, 
to whom we are so much indebted.” 

“ Madame has already spoken of my biting and snarling,” 
said Marie, looking injured, “ but now she calls me a dog in 
plain speech. I will bear much, but not this, and I will 
starve.” 

“ Supper is ready,” drily said Fanny. And Marie forgot 
her resolve to starve, and sat down to her evening meal just as 
usual. 

Fanny alone did not eat. She said she was not hungry, 
and she spoke the truth. It had been her task to let Monsieur 
Noiret out that evening, and as he turned round and bade her 
a last good night, he had given her a smile and a look Fanny 
could not mistake. 

“ God help me,” she thought; “ we are falling into that 
man’s power, and I am the price he wants. God help me.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Monsieur Noiret came often; he soon came every even¬ 
ing. No more was said about his visits in the little family. 
Madame la Roche did not mention the subject to Fanny, nor 
did Fanny broach it with her. Even Charlotte and Marie 
proved studiously discreet, and did not tread on forbidden 
ground. 

The visits of Monsieur Noiret did not add, however, to 
the common prosperity. Charlotte and Marie could find 
nothing to do, and what -were Madame la Roche’s four hundred 
francs a year, and Fanny’s daily earnings, to support a family 
with ? Not half enough! 

The young girl’s health and spirits sank under the pressure 
of so many cares and so much trouble. Madame la Roche re¬ 
verted uneasily to her altered looks, but Monsieur Noiret gal¬ 
lantly declared that Fanny looked as pretty as ever. Beyond 


SEVEN YEARS. 


129 


this polite speech he did nothing to lighten her anxiety. His 
continued presence only irritated the young girl, and at length, 
unable to bear any longer the suspense in which it kept her, 
she one day asked Madame la Roche if she had given Monsieur 
Noiret her answer. 

u My dear,” hesitatingly said Madame la Roche, u Mon¬ 
sieur Noiret told me he was not in a hurry, so what could I do ? ” 
u Then perhaps he comes here on my account,” said Fanny, 
moodily. 

“ My dear, we cannot tell him not to come,” uneasily re¬ 
plied Madame la Roche. “ I hope you will do nothing indis¬ 
creet, he is our only friend now.” 

u I shall say and do nothing, Madame,” resignedly replied 
Fanny. “ This is your house, not mine.” 

u And how much money have you got now, child ? ” hesi¬ 
tatingly asked Madame la Roche. 

“ I have none,” answered Fanny ; “ Madame des Granges 
said to-day she would pay it all in a lump.” 

“ Hear me ! ” said Madame la Roche, looking startled, 
“ that is not convenient for us, is it ? ” 

“ No, Madame, it is not.” 

“ I have not a franc left; how shall we manage ? ” 

“ We must try and get credit,” said Fanny, making a 
strong effort. 

“ I wonder if Monsieur Noiret w r ould lend me any more 
money,” doubtingly observed Madame la Roche. 

Fanny did not reply. What right had she to say, “you 
must not borrow from him ? ” None. She submitted, but 
with a heart heavy with forebodings. Monsieur Noiret came 
in the evening. What passed between him and Madame la 
Roche, Fanny only knew the next morning when that lady put 
a gold piece in her hand, and said sadly : “ My dear, make this 
go as far as you can ; it is all I shall ever get, for it is all I 
shall ever ask for from that quarter,” 

“ Twenty francs,” thought Fanny, “ and we are four with¬ 
out the child ! ” Careful as she was, she could not make the 
money last more than a few days; her own money, though it 
had reached the lump stage, did not make an amount sufficient 
to satisfy the lady who employed her,—for being one of those 
kind persons who like to manage the affairs of the poor, she 
patted Fanny’s cheek, and told her benevolently that she was 
saving it up for her, lest she should spend it in frivolities. 

“Well, but you are not going to stand that, are you?” 
asked Marie of Fanny, one evening. 

6 * 


130 


SEVEN YEARS. 


11 It is hard,” replied the young girl, “ hut I am afraid of 

losing the custom.” . 

“ Custom, indeed, a pretty custom ! Y ou will never do m 

the world, child.” 

Fanny did not answer, and Marie took a resolve, on which 
she forthwith acted without thinking it necessary to apprize 
Fanny of her intention. Under pretence of calling on an old 
friend she went out, and proceeded at once to the house of 
Madame des Granges, who so kindly kept Fanny’s money in a 
lump for her. 

Madame des Granges rented a very handsome apartment 
in a stylish house ; she kept a footman, who was cook as well, 
and maid-of-all-work; and a lady’s-maid, who dressed grandly, 
and was suspected to be a governess on the sly to the five young 
Des Granges. It was this potentate who received Marie, and 
recognizing her for having seen her once or twice with Fanny, 
she graciously asked what she wanted. 

“ Only to say a few words to Madame,” replied Marie, with 
a prim smile. 

The lady’s-maid feared her mistress was not visible, but 
would inquire. She vanished behind a damask hanging, and 
presently returned, requesting Marie to follow her in to 
Madame’s bed-room. 

Madame was dressing, and her maid remained in the room 
to assist in her toilet. In a gracious voice Madame des Granges, 
nodding at Marie, said amiably : 

11 My good woman, what do you want with me.at this hour? ” 

Some people like being called good; others have an objec¬ 
tion to it. To the latter class Marie belonged. “ She might 
be a good woman, or she might not, but what was that to 
Madame des Granges, or any other Madame? Nothing, that 
she knew of.” Bristling up, therefore, with a sense of injured 
dignity, yet smiling a grim smile that vainly tried to be sweet, 
Marie replied : 

“ I beg pardon for disturbing Madame at this hour; but I 
believe Madame has been so kind to my Fanny as to keep her 
money in a lump for her.” 

“ Yes,” replied Madame des Granges, with an approving 
look, “ I always do. Young people in that class of life are so 
improvident; they spend their money in such trifling, foolish 
things, that on principle I keep it up for them. You may, 
therefore, set your mind at ease, my good woman ; what Fanny 
has said to you is quite correct. I keep her money in a lump 
for her.” 


SEVEN YEARS. 


131 


“Very kind of Madame,” said Marie, “ but if Madame 
would not mind giving me Fanny’s money, I could put it out 
at interest,”—this was a gratuitous fib, but Marie was not 
scrupulous,—“ at a good interest, I mean. It is Fanny’s own 
wish,—only the silly thing did not not like mentioning it to 
Madame,—as if it could make any difference to Madame 
whether the money was in her drawer or in a bank.” 

This was most provoking, and Madame des Granges was 
fairly exasperated; for this kind lady had the habit of making 
lumps of all the money she could decently keep from trades¬ 
people and servants. The maid who was fastening her flounced 
silk dress knew the meaning of the word ‘ lump ; ’ the man¬ 
servant, who was then listening behind the door, knew it; 
every one knew it who had anything to do with Madame des 
Granges, and that she should be compelled to refund a c lump,’ 
howsoever insignificant, was so dangerous a precedent, that 
she could not contemplate it without alarm and displeasure. 

“ I am very much surprised,” she said drawing herself up 
with great majesty; “ I am surprised, indeed, at so strange a 
proceeding; but ingratitude is the common reward of benevo¬ 
lence like mine. You will give Fanny this amount,” she 
added, putting down on the table four five-franc pieces, “ and 
you will inform her that I dispense with her service henceforth.” 

Marie took the money, curtsied, and feeling, as she after¬ 
wards said, that it was all done for, she thought she might as 
well have her revenge. Politely, therefore, but with a sting¬ 
ing politeness,, she said: 

“ I am sorry it inconvenienced Madame to let me have 
that money • if Fanny and I had known it, we would willingly 
have given Madame more time.” 

“ Show the woman out,” loftily said Madame des Granges. 

“Ah! she will not call me a good woman now,” thought 
Marie, exulting in her success. And being one of those happy 
persons with whom the gratification of temper is paramount, 
Marie left the house neither disheartened nor disconcerted by 
the remembrance that through her kind exertions Fanny had 
lost a customer. 

“ Nothing like sticking up for one’s own, child,” soliloquized 
Marie, addressing an imaginary Fanny as she went home. 
“ Let yourself be trod on, and you wdll be trod on; stick up for 
your rights, and you will be respected.” 

In this triumphant and congratulatory frame of mind 
Marie went home. 


132 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Madame la Roche was talking' with Monsieur Noiret f 
Fanny was preparing the sober supper, of which the family 
partook every evening ; and Charles, tired with play, was sleep¬ 
ing in Charlotte’-s arms, when Marie made her appearance. 
With that want of all ceremony which had ever characterized 
her, Marie, spite the presence of Monsieur Noiret, at once in¬ 
formed every one present of what had occurred ; but she did so- 
in her own fashion. 

“ There, child,” said she, throwing down the money on the 
table, “ there is your money. My opinion is, that without me 
you might have done long enough without it.” 

The plate Fanny held nearly dropped from her hand. 

“ You have been to Madame des Granges ? ” she said, look¬ 
ing frightened. 

“ Yes, child; and trouble enough I had in getting these 
few silver pieces from her. I would be ashamed to be a lady 
and not be able to pay for the work I got done.” 

“ I hope there is no mischief done,” uneasily said Fanny. 

“ Mischief, my dear ! ” put in Charlotte, “ I can tell you 
what mischief there is,—you had better never go near Madame 
des Granges again.” 

“ That is not it, surely ! ” said Fanny, giving Marie an un¬ 
easy look. 

Marie put a brave face on the matter. 

“ Of course it is,” stoutly replied Marie ; “ you would not 
go to a woman that does not want to pay you, would you? No, 
Besides, even if you did, my dear, it would be of no use, 
Madame des Granges is deep: seeing me determined, she 
thought it best to draw in her horns, and she accordingly mut¬ 
tered something about having no more work for you, with 
which we parted.” 

Fanny forgot the presence of Monsieur Noiret: she only 
felt the calamity. She sank down on a chair, and clasped her 
hands, exclaiming : 

“ God forgive you, and help us, Marie. She was my last 
customer.” 

11 Some people mar where they meddle,” begun Charlotte. 

Madame la Roche extended her pale thin hand. 

“ Hush,” she said gently, but in a voice of command, and 
with the self-possession which good breeding imparts, she re¬ 
sumed her conversation with Monsieur Noiret, who had looked 


SEVEH YEARS* 


133 


On keenly though silently, whilst Fanny returned to her prepa¬ 
rations, and Marie and Charlotte were sulkily silent. Mon¬ 
sieur Noiret soon rose, and looking hard at Fanny, he said 
quietly: 

u I am sorry for what has occurred. I am acquainted with 
few ladies, and I cannot give another customer instead of the 
lost one ; hut Fanny knows there is an easy remedy for all this 
uneasiness.” 

The lips of Fanny opened to give Monsieur Noiret his an¬ 
swer once for all, hut she met the startled look of Madame la 
Roche, and checking herself, she merely hent her head as much 
as to say, “ I know it.” 

“Oh! you will think it over,” said Monsieur Noiret in his 
cheerful voice ; “ that is all I wish for, my dear,—all I wish 
for. Good evening, ladies, good evening.” And with a grace¬ 
ful wave of his hand he left them. 

The supper was silent. Fanny was pale as death : Madame 
la Roche, guessing what passed in the young girl’s mind, looked 
at her pitifully; Charlotte and Marie seemed agreed on a silent 
truce. Perhaps they, too, were meditating on Monsieur Noi¬ 
ret’s last words, on Fanny’s looks, and speculating on the prob¬ 
able issue of both. 

We have said that Fanny slept in a sort of closet, which 
was barely large enough to hold her bed. She always was the 
last up, and on this evening she stayed later up than usual. 
At length, however, she lay down, and prepared for a sleep¬ 
less night. 

She had not been long in bed, when, wrapped in a shawl 
and holding a candle, Madame la Roche appeared by her bed¬ 
side. Fanny sat up startled, and was going to ask what ailed 
her, or what had happened, when the lady signed her to be si¬ 
lent and lie down. 

“ My dear,” she softly said, bending over her, “ do not fret, 
do not trouble ; do not think of what Monsieur Noiret said, and. 
do not mind either Charlotte or Marie, if they urge you. 
They mean well, but they think all the happiness of life is in 
money : they know nothing about it, and do not mind them. 
All will be well yet: I have a plan I will talk of with you to¬ 
morrow, and now good night, and sleep.” She kissed her, and 
withdrew softly, without having allowed the young girl to ut¬ 
ter a word. 

Fanny wondered at first what Madame la Roche’s projects 
could be, then soothed, spite of herself, by a vague hope, she 
sighed with relief, and closing her eyes soon slept soundly. 


134 - 


seven YEARS. 


At breakfast the next morning Madame la Roche unfolded 
her plans; smiling, with a content to which her mild but sad 
face had long been a stranger, she said cheerfully : 

u I -wonder I never thought of it before; but I have often 
heard that good ideas are slow to come. It is singular, I do 
not see why it should be so. Well, this is what I have thought 
of,” she added, displaying a little painted fan on the table. 
“ You know how much my fan has been admired. The people 
of the shop who mounted it declared it -was a beautiful work of 
art, and that they would willingly give twenty francs for one 
like it. Now you know, Fanny, my dear, that I painted it in 
three mornings. Twenty francs in three mornings ! why, that 
makes forty francs a week, and one hundred and sixty francs 
a month ! Besides that, Fanny can learn, and paint fans too, 
in a very short time. Now, my dear child, do not look so 
startled. It is not difficult. This is how it is done. I have 
a set of pieces of card-board, you know, with the flowers, birds 
and butterflies all perforated. Where I find a vacant place I 
put a colour, then I finish off, and I have produced a rose, a 
pink, or a bird, as the case may be. A circle does for the rose, 
a triangle for the pink, an oval for the bird. I add the head 
and tail afterwards; the head at one end and the tail at the 
other, of course. Our master at school used to call this geo¬ 
metrical drawing, and. really the effect is very pretty.; then the 
grouping is all my own, to be sure. ” And with innocent vanity 
Madame la Roche opened the fan, which, thanks to its bright 
colours, plenty of gilding, and the grouping, really looked very 
pretty. 

“ If I had all the fans I have painted and given away,” 
sighed Madame la Roche, “ I should have quite a fortune by 
this. Well, well, I gave them freely, and it is wrong to grudge 
a gift.” 

Marie and Charlotte had too long looked on their mistress 
as on a superior fairy, gifted with every accomplishment, to 
doubt the beauty of the fans and consequently their success. 
Fanny was not quite so confident or so sanguine; but she too, 
from her childhood upwards, had learned to respect the artistic 
talents of her protectress, and though she timidly objected that 
perhaps so many fans as Madame la Roche could paint might 
not be saleable, the fans themselves found in her a ready and 
devout believer. Madame la Roche felt no sort of doubt on 
the subject. Inexperience of life and its trials supplied in her 
the hopefulness of youth, and produced results apparently 
similar. Confident of success, she talked and laughed with 


SEVEN YEARS. 135 

unusual liveliness, and as soon as the meal was over, she w T ent 
out with the fan in her pocket, and Charles by the hand. 

“ It is a fine thing Madame has thought of,” observed 
Marie, as she was making the beds : “ it will be the making of 
Monsieur Charles, pretty dear.” 

“ I did not think Madame was going to paint fans in her 
old age, nor that the child of my dear foster-daughter was to 
rely on fans for a fortune,” replied Charlotte. 

“ It is well people have not the evil eye, as well as an evil 
tongue,” angrily exclaimed Marie, throwing a counterpane on 
the bed with a revengeful air, “ else Heaven have mercy on 
us. We should be in a pretty state.” 

“ The belief in the evil eye is an ancient superstition,” 
placidly answered Charlotte. “ I have heard of remote prow 
inces and of aged people who still cherish it.” 

This was one of the speeches that usually exasperated 
Marie, and which by urging her to make some bitter and vehe¬ 
ment reply, invariably led to a dire quarrel. 

And a severe encounter no doubt took place, but Fanny 
heard no more, for she went out on a domestic errand, and 
remained some time away. When she came back Madame la 
Roche had returned, and was sitting in her arm-chair by the fire¬ 
side. A look at her face told Fanny what the fate of Madame la 
Roche’s errand had been. Pale and sad she sat, her hands 
folded on her knees, her look listlessly fastened on the child 
playing on the rug as gaily as if his future were couleur de 
rose. Marie and Charlotte sat a little apart, one sewing, the 
other doing nothing, and both gloomy. 

“ Well, my dear,” said Madame la Roche, speaking with 
an effort, “ I have received another strange proof of the insin¬ 
cerity of the world. When I was a rich lady, and got fans 
mounted, I painted beautifully; now that I am a poor woman 
and want to earn my bread, my painting is all trash. Yes, 
my dear, that same fan which they praised so much formerly 
is trash now.” 

“ Dear Madame, do not mind them,” said Fanny, much 
moved. 

“ My dear child, I should not care if it were not that we 
are as we are, so miserably poor.” 

She sighed, and closing her eyes sank back in her chair 
with an air of weariness. 

“ Some one else may like the fans,” timidly suggested Fanny. 

Rut if inexperience sometimes gives the sanguine hopes of 
youth to age, it never bestows the wonderful elasticity of that 


136 


SEVEN YE AES. 


happy time of life to declining years. Madame la Roche’s 
dreams had been rudely dispelled 5 they could not know a 
second birth. 

“ No, child,” she said, sighing, u I perceive I have been de¬ 
ceived. It does not matter much, so far as I am concerned : 
I thought my fan pretty and valuable, and it is worthless; no, 
it does not matter about my little amour-propre; but why 
cheat myself willingly ? I will not: indeed, I could not.” 

“ Bonne maman,” said Charles, “ you promised me a gun, 
where is it ? ” 

Madame la Roche took up the child on her knees, and 
kissed him silently. 

“ Child,” she said, “ I was glad when you were born, and 
when your poor mother died it seemed a comfort to have you 
left: but now I think that if you were in your little grave I 
should not fret or cry much. I should think, God has taken 
him away to spare him a world of trouble and care.” 

The round face of Charles lengthened, and his bright eyes 
grew fixed as he heard this. Charlotte threw her handkerchief 
on her face and sobbed from behind it, and Marie, looking at 
Fanny, said moodily: 

“ Well, Fanny, if I had in my power what you have in 
yours, matters should not be as they are.” 

Before Fanny could reply, Madame la Roche looked up 
and said gravely, “ I beg, Marie, and once for all, that Fanny 
may never be urged on that subject again.” 

u Ay,” thought Fanny, pressing her hand to her aching- 
forehead, “ it all lies with me! I can make them happy with 
a word, and it seems so easy.” 

But no more was said on the subject. Madame la Roche 
tried to rally, and succeeded indifferently; Charles resumed 
his gambols; Marie and Charlotte picked up a quarrel about 
nothiug, and Fanny was left to her own thoughts. The day 
seemed dull and heavy ; evening brought Monsieur Noiret with 
his brisk cheerfulness ; if he noticed the gloom cast on the little 
family he took care to seem unconscious of it, and was as po¬ 
lite and gallant as if addressing a circle of smiling faces. 
Similar to this were the next day and the next evening. On 
the third morning Fanny rose pale as death. 

u Something ails her,” said Marie to Charlotte. 

11 She looks like Monica on the day she went to America,” 
sententiously replied Charlotte, “ Now, Monica, I said, mind 
what you are about. It is all very well to go to America, but 
to come back is another thing.” 


SEVEN YE AES. 


137 


“ What lias America to do with Fanny’s white face? ” im¬ 
patiently asked Marie. “ She is not a map, is she ? ” 

“ Perhaps you think she is,” replied Charlotte, coolly. “ I 
like the girl too much to find any likeness.” 

“ A saint could not stand that,” wrathfully began Marie. 

“ Peace, peace,” said Madame la Roche, appearing; “ I 
will have quietness; Fanny, my dear, what ails you ? ” 

“ Nothing, Madame,” replied Fanny, with a cold abstracted 
manner. 

“ Are you going out ? ” asked Madame la Roche, seeing that 
she put on her shawl. 

Fanny said she was. 

“ And where are you going ? ” 

u I want air,” evasively said Fanny. Madame la Roche 
gave her a compassionate look, and went back to her room. 
Marie and Charlotte exchanged furtive glances, but did not 
utter a word till the door had closed on Fanny. 

“ She has made up her mind, then,” said Marie, whom a 
natural infirmity rarely allowed to keep her rnind to herself; 
“ she is as white as paper.” 

“ Paper is not always white,” replied Charlotte; “there 
is brown paper and blue paper.” 

“ I never heard anything like it,” exclaimed Marie, exas¬ 
perated ; “ I tell you what, Charlotte, the same house can¬ 
not hold us long. It cannot.” 

“ It need not,” placidly said Charlotte ; “ when Fanny is 
Madame Noiret, I shall of course go and live with my god¬ 
daughter. Summer is coming on, and I shall enjoy country 
air.” 

To this taunt, for a taunt it was, Marie having often de¬ 
clared that she would live with Fanny in the event of her 
marriage, the owner of the Norman cap now only replied with 
an attempt to whistle, and an emphatic bah ! 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

At twelve Charlotte discovered that she wanted to go 
out; and at once Marie made a similar discovery. Madame 
la Roche saw them depart with apathetic listlessness, and only 
asked if they would not take out Charles. 

“ I am going to the Faubourg St. Germain,” said Charlotte, 
1 it is too far.” 

Marie was going to the Rue St. Honore, and though that 


138 


SEVEN YEAES. 


happened to be the* opposite direction, it was also too far for 
the child to accompany her. 

“ Oh ! very well,” listlessly said Madame la Roche, and 
she resumed her sad contemplation of the decaying embers 
on the hearth, for spring time though it was, the morning was 
chill. 

Marie was going to the Rue St. Honore, but unaccount¬ 
ably her steps took another direction, and before half an hour 
was over she crossed the threshold of Monsieur Noiret’s house, 
and was admitted by Monsieur Noiret’s servant into that gen¬ 
tleman’s sitting-room. 

“ Eh ! my old friend Marie,” he said jocularly ; well, what 
news, Marie ? ” 

“ Good news, sir,” knowingly said Marie. “ Good news.” 

Monsieur Noiret had passed the age when the heart beats 
and the cheek flushes ; but a sparkle of triumph, nevertheless, 
lit his brown eye; and a slow smile, a genuine smile, display¬ 
ed his shining teeth. 

“ Good news ! ” he repeated; “ sit down, Marie, and tell 
me those good news.” 

“ Fanny has made up her mind.” 

“ About what ? ” placidly asked Monsieur Noiret. 

“ Monsieur knows.” 

11 1 shall know when you tell me, Marie.” 

“ Monsieur knows,” repeated Marie, who was of a stubborn 
turn. “ I came to tell Monsieur, and also to warn Monsieur 
about Charlotte. It does not become me to speak ill of an 
old fellow-servant to whom I am attached, and for whom I 
would work- my poor bones bare; but all I say is this, if 
Monsieur Noiret takes Charlotte in his house he will repent it 
as long as he lives.” 

“ Not exactly,” said Monsieur Noiret, smiling, “ not ex¬ 
actly. I never repent anything more than a day; for when 
what I have done does not suit me,” continued Monsieur 
Noiret, u I undo it.” 

Marie was rather disconcerted, and coughed from behind 
her hand ; but she soon rallied and observed : 

u I can assure Monsieur that Charlotte does not think of 
that, and that she contemplates spending her life with Mon¬ 
sieur.” 

“Very curious,” said Monsieur Noiret, smiling; “Char¬ 
lotte has not been gone five minutes, and she averred the same 
thing of you.” 

The eyes of Marie shot fire. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


139 


“ Oli! if Charlotte has been here,” she said, “ I can im¬ 
agine what she has been saying of me.” 

“ Very kind things,” replied Monsieur Noiret; “ in short, 
much about what you have been saying of her.” 

This did not seem to soothe Marie much; for she observ¬ 
ed, with considerable asperity: 

“ Then I suppose it is all settled, and that she is to come 
here. All I can say is, Monsieur will repent it.” 

“ Dear me, this is very singular,” said Monsieur Noiret; 

“ something has happened that requires me to be favored with 
your presence, or with that of Charlotte, but I cannot possibly 
learn what it is from either one or the other.” 

“ Did not Charlatte tell Monsieur ? ” asked Marie, bright¬ 
ening. 

u Not more than you have done,” replied Monsieur Noiret; 

“ I am supposed to be a sphinx, and to guess riddles.” 

“Dear me, to think of it. Well,'then, sincp Monsieur 
wishes to know the truth, I must tell it in plain words. Fanny 
has made up her mind.” 

“ To what ? ” said Monsieur Noiret. 

“ To become Monsieur's wife, I suppose,” said Marie, 
curtseying. 

“ Hem ! ” said Monsieur Noiret, giving her a keen look, 

“ did Fanny say so ?” 

“ Young girls never say so,” sharply replied Marie. 

“ Oh, yes they do—sometimes,” replied Monsieur Noiret, 

“ and I have no doubt that if Fanny has made up her mind 
she will say so. In the mean while, my dear creature, and 
until the little thing has fairly spoken, we will consider that 
nothing, actually nothing, has happened.” 

“ But Fanny has made up her mind,” obstinately said 
Marie. 

“ Very well,” placidly replied Monsieur Noiret. “I shall 
say a few words to her to-night; and to-morrow or after to¬ 
morrow,” he graciously added, “ we can discuss those other 
matters that brought you and Charlotte here to-day.” 

This was a polite dismissal: Marie curtsied again, and left 
in a suspicious mood, convinced that Charlotte had forestalled 
her, and anything but pleased with the success of her errand. 

And yet in one respect Marie was right enough. Fanny’s " 
mind was made up, and when she left the house that morning 
she seemed to be treading upon air. Light and swift as a 
vision she passed through streets, and went up and down lanes 
and alleys, seeing nothing, feeling nothing,—absorbed in one 


140 


SEVEN YE AES. 


thought that effaced every other. At length she stopped before 
the shop of Baptiste, and pushing open the door she entered. 

Baptiste was alone, making up an account. He looked up 
with the slowness habitual to him, and saw Fanny standing- 
before him looking at him with sad eyes, and pale as death. 

Strong man as he was, Baptiste shook and grew white. 
For a while he could not move, but sat and looked amazed at 
this pale vision. It may be that Fanny misunderstood his 
silence, for, raising her hand with a deprecating gesture, she 
said meekly : 

“ Baptiste, am I welcome ? ” 

“ You ask it! ” broke from Baptiste’s full heart, “ you ask 
if you are welcome, Fanny! ” and rising he went towards her. 

Fanny sat down on a chair, and hid her burning face in 
her hands. Baptiste thought she was crying, and that some¬ 
thing dreadful had happened. 

“What is it ? ” he cried; “nothing to you, surely,” he 
added, eyeing her uneasily, as if, even though he saw her be¬ 
fore him, he scarcely thought her safe ; “ what is it, Fanny ? ” 

“ Nothing,” she answered, looking up, and uncovering her 
red face, “ nothing, only what do you think of my coming to 
you, Baptiste ? ” 

“ That you are in trouble,” he simply replied, “ and that 
you want me.” 

“ Yes, that is it,” said Fanny, with a touch of bitterness; 
“ if I did not want you I should not be here, and you know it. 
Well, Baptiste, I do not care what you think ; you are the 
only friend I have left, and I come to you. Help me to bear 
up, or I shall sink. Tell me you are fond of me, spite of all 
that has passed, or I shall get reckless and do something des¬ 
perate that shall end it all.” 

Baptiste took both her hands in his, and clasped them with 
tender firmness. 

“ Fanny, my little Fanny,” he said, “ what is it ? Tell 
me all, tell me everything.” * 

“ They want me to marry old Monsieur Noiret,” said 
Fanny, hanging down her head, “ and I will not—I cannot.” 

Baptiste set his teeth. 

“ Marry that old man ! ” he said, “ marry any man—not 
whilst I am alive, Fanny. You are my wife, or as good as my 
wife, and all the mischief is that you will not be my wife out¬ 
right.” 

“ I cannot—I cannot,” cried Fanny, desperately. “ Oh ! 
if I but could, Baptiste, what a world of care it would spare 


SEVEN YEAES. 


141 


me. But I cannot. They want me too much, and I like you 
too well to cast that burden on you. But I wish that old man 
would not come, and I wish they would not sigh and look as 
they do. I know the poverty and want of our wretched home, 
and my heart feels ready to break. This is why I came to 
you. I have no one else to fly to for strength and succour, 
and if I stay alone I am undone—I am undone.” 

“ I am a wretch to have forsaken you, my poor little dar¬ 
ling,” said Baptiste, with tears in his eyes, “ but do not fret, 
my heart, my treasure ; say nothing when you go home. Let 
them sigh, let them look as long as they like. I shall drop in 
this evening as if nothing had happened; and when that old 
gentleman sees me,” added Baptiste, grimly, “ I am very much 
mistaken if he does not drop off, eh?” 

Fanny laughed through her tears : trust and comfort came 
to her with Baptiste’s honest voice and look. 

“ With that good friend,” she thought, “ surely all will be 
well yet.” 

And full of faith and hope she gave Baptiste her hand, and 
smiled brightly as she said : 

“ What possessed me, Baptiste, ever to let you leave me ? 
X ought to have known that I could not do without you. 
Ought I not ? ” 

Baptiste’s eyes sparkled. 

“ I do think you are fond of me,” he said. “ X have often 
thought you were not; but since we parted I thought over 
many things, and I felt it in my heart: Fanny likes me.” 

“ Conceit, mere conceit,” said Fanny. “I want you just 
now to send off Monsieur Noiret, that is all. And so good 
bye.” 

She nodded, and was gone. 

“ She may say what she likes,” thought Baptiste, 11 that 
girl is fond of me.” 

Fanny let him rejoice in the triumphant conviction, and 
went home. Of what had happened she said nothing: she 
had always been able to keep her own counsel, and she thought 
it would be time enough to speak when Baptiste showed him¬ 
self. Fanny, indeed, might have been more open had she sus¬ 
pected the mistake under which her friends laboured, but she 
did not, and she helped to deceive them in perfect good faith. 

“ My dear, you look feverish,” said Madame la Boche, 
anxiously. u I do not know when I have seen you with such 
a colour.” 


142 


SEVEN YEARS. 


Fanny blushed, and said something about a headache, 
which was not, we fear, quite correct. 

Marie spoke next. 

“ Girls are so,” she said, “ they cannot be like other peo¬ 
ple 5 they must colour and look foolish, one never knows why. 
What is there in marriage that upset them so ? They are all 
mad to be married, and yet when it comes to the point, they 
are as fantastical as princesses.” 

Fanny looked and felt puzzled; there seemed something in 
this speech that applied to her, but more that did not. She 
thought it most prudent not to reply. 

a Girls arc not always so anxious to get married,” said 
Charlotte, who could not lose the opportunity of contradic¬ 
tion ; “ it depends on the advice they get, and if Monica had 
not been ill advised I will not believe that she would even 
have gone off to America.” 

“ Fanny,” said Madame la Roche, wishing to know more, 
and to put an end to the contest, u you were a long time out; 
where have you been ? ” Fanny reddened more than ever, 
and remained mute. 

u Never mind, dear, never mind,” quickly said Madame la 
Roche, unwilling to distress her, u all in good time, I have no 
doubt.” 

Fanny thought so too, and did not speak. Charlotte and 
Marie exchanged significant looks; evidently Fanny had had 
a private conversation with Monsieur Noiret. It was strange 
that she had not seen him at home in their presence, but 
Fanny was a fanciful girl, and liked to do things her own 
way. 

Madame la Roche came to the same conclusion; with 
mingled surprise and relief she saw that Fanny seemed very 
happy; there was a ready smile on her lips and a light in her 
eyes to which both had long been a stranger: “I suppose it is 
having made her mind up,” thought Madame la Roche : “ I 
always feel much lighter when I have made my mind up. 
Poor Baptiste ! I wonder how he will bear it.” 

In this discreet silence on both sides the day passed: 
Fanny thinking herself suspected, Madame la Roche, Char¬ 
lotte, and Marie concluding all was right: none on either 
side holding it necessary to speak. Unsuspicious of the ap¬ 
proaching storm, Madame la Roche dropped asleep after 
dinner. 

It was early yet, when a ring was heard at the door. 
Fanny started up, joyous but a little flurried. She knew Bap- 


SEVEN YEARS. 


143 


tiste’s ring, and opened with a trembling band, yet witli a 
happy smile, that faded away on beholding Monsieur Noiret. 

He did not-appear to heed or see her blank looks. He 
entered gay, smiling, cheerful; he directed his most amiable 
bow and greeting to Madame la Roche, and as he sat down by 
her side, he nodded to Charlotte and Marie, and looked hard 
at Fanny. Her countenance revealed none of the signs Mon¬ 
sieur Noiret had been led to expect. Uneasy and disturbed 
at his visit, she sheltered her face behind Charles’s curly head, 
and looked with the child at a book on her lap. 

“ Charles is learning how to read,” said Monsieur Noiret. 

“ I know all my letters ! ” cried Charles, proudly. 

“ No wonder, with such a teacher ! ” resumed Monsieur 
Noiret, still looking hard at Fanny. She felt the child was 
but a means of drawing attention to her, so she quietly put 
him away, and rose apparently to take some work in liana. 

Marie, who was burning to bring matters to a crisis, 
hastened to observe in an under voice : 

“ The most industrious girl.” 

“ A treasure to a husband i ” put in Charlotte. 

Monsieur Noiret smiled, and Fanny, red as fire, dropped 
the linen she was going to darn, and turning towards Monsieur 
Noiret her flushed and angry face, she said to Marie : 

u You know I detest sewing.” 

Monsieur Noiret laughed, and looked more pleased than 
shocked at this little burst of temper. Fanny, who felt greatly 
annoyed, glanced at him with as much haughtiness as she could 
venture to put in her look, but even as she gazed she became 
conscious of a singular change in Monsieur Noiret’s face; it 
darkened visibly ; liis brows knit slightly, and his dark eyes 
shone from beneath them with something like fierceness. 

Fanny turned round startled, yet not quite unconscious of 
the cause of so strange a change. The door which she had 
neglected to close on Monsieur Noiret had opened again, and 
Baptiste was standing on the threshold. 

Fanny cast a troubled and anxious look around her. 
Charlotte and Marie looked confounded ; Madame la Roche 
utterly amazed ; and Monsieur Noiret black and defiant. At 
once he guessed the truth, or rather he went beyond it. 
Madame la Roche, her two servants, and Fanny, he comprised 
in one mean plot to entrap and cheat him, and though he was 
too gentleman-like to show any temper, there w r as scarcely any 
mistaking the smile with which he rose and bade Madame la 
Roche good evening. 


144 


SEVEN YE AES. 


“ Good evening, my dear Madame,’ 5 he said, with his most 
urbane smile, 11 no apologies, I beg; I hold myself fortunate 
in having seen you this evening. I may not have like pleasure 
in haste. I perceive I was not expected so very early; I 
think I did come rather too early; but friendship discards all 
ceremony. Good evening ; I entreat you not to stir. 7 ’ 

With a courtly bow all round, Monsieur Noiret stepped 
out. pinching Fanny’s cheek as he passed by her. 

“ You are very young, my dear, to act a double part,” he 
said blandly, 11 you are very young. Good night.” 

He waved his hand to her, and walked out past Baptiste, 
who mechanically stepped aside to make way for his rival, and 
who, fortunately for that gentleman, had not heard the parting 
' speech Fanny had received from him. As for Fanny, she was 
too much taken by surprise to resent on the moment the impu¬ 
tation it conveyed. 

When the door had closed on Monsieur Noiret, Baptiste 
looked around him. Not one face, not even Fanny’s bade him 
welcome. The young girl was shocked and frightened at 
Monsieur Noiret’s words. Madame la Boche looked as if she 
had gazed on Medusa’s face; and Charlotte and Marie were 
fairly boiling over with wrath at an intrusion which, in their 
opinion, ruined everything. 

It was lucky for Baptiste that he was of a phlegmatic 
temper, else he might have been disconcerted at so strange a 
reception; as it was, he looked calmly around him, and seeing 
that Fanny was only startled, he troubled himself but little 
with the rest. 

Madame la Boche was the first to speak. She clasped her 
hands and wrung them. 

“ I owe Monsieur Noiret a hundred francs,” she moaned, 
11 and he looked as I never saw him look before.” 

She spoke half wildly, and for a moment she was certainly 
unconscious of Baptiste’s presence. 

“ A hundred francs,” he said, quietly. “ I beg Madame’s 
pardon for meddling in what concerns me not, but I can let 
Madame have two hundred francs, before to-morrow morning.” 

a You, Baptiste,” said Madame la Boche, opening her 
eyes and shaking her head sadly, “ and what should I take 
your money for ? ” 

“ Ay,” put in Marie with much energy, 11 what should 
Madame take your money for ? ” 

Baptiste neither looked at nor answered the last speaker. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


145 


He fastened his clear blue eyes on Madame la Roche, and 
said with respectful firmness : 

“ Madame lias reared Fanny, who is all but my wife ; all 
I have is hers, and all she has is Madame’s. I have a little 
money just now, and it is heartily at Madame’s disposal.” 

“ Strange presumption! ” meditatively said Charlotte, 
commenting upon it. 

But Madame la Roche’s eyes grew dim. 

“ It is God’s will! ” she sighed, “ ay, verily it is God’s 
will that I should be humbled, that my old age should be 
a burden on their youth. Come here, Baptiste, here by me. 
I see Fanny and you are reconciled : well, I am glad, Baptiste, 
I am, and I will not stand any more between you—you must 
marry.” 

Fanny looked frightened, and Charlotte and Marie utter¬ 
ed exclamations, but Madame la Roche held up her hand 
and enjoined silence. 

“ Hush! ” she said, with something like sternness. 
“What right have three old useless lives to stand for ever 
between two young things ? We have made their hearts 
sore enough, as it is. Come here, Fanny. 

Fanny obeyed. She seemed bewildered, and like one 
who had lost all power of resistance. Madame la Roche 
took the young girl’s hand, and put it in Baptiste’s, then 
sank back in her chair with evident relief. 

Baptiste stood face to face with his betrothed; her hand 
lay in his, and for once since their first betrothal, there was 
no resistance, no denial in Fanny’s looks. He questioned her. 
“ Well, Fanny,” he said, clasping her baud tightly, “ what do 
you say? ” 

Fanny raised her eyes to his ; her lips parted ; like one un¬ 
able to contend any longer, she uttered words of assent. 

“ As you please, as you like.” 

The face of Baptiste fell, he released the hand of Fanny 
with a rueful sigh, and looking at Madame la Roche, he said, 
rather dismally : 

“ No, Madame, no, that must not be; God knows I love 
Fanny as I love my life,—but there is no denying it, if we 
were to marry just now it might interfere with the duty she 
owes you and others, and so we must even wait. Fanny 
said so long ago, for though she does not care to show it, she 
has more sense in her little finger than I have in my whole 
body ; but I would not mind her, and trouble and grief nearly 
befell us both. But now,” added Baptiste, with manful 
7 


146 


SEVEN YEARS. 


calmness, u now, Madame, my mind is made up,—and I am 
willing to wait as long as Fanny pleases, as long as is 
needed,” resumed Baptiste, with a thoughtful sigh, that show¬ 
ed he did not think himself on the eve of his wedding-day. 

Madame la Roche raised her head and looked at Fanny. 
The young girl stood before Baptiste, gazing at him with a 
smile, half sad, half happy, on her face. 

u You know best,” sighed Madame la Roche ; u but since 
you must or will wait, you must see Fanny as often as you 
like, and be as one of us.” 

To this plan neither Baptiste nor Fanny raised any objec¬ 
tion ; but Marie boldly attempted to interfere. 

“ Has Madame reflected ? ” she began. 

“ I have,” interrupted Madame la Roche, rather testily, 
“ and I will not hear one word against it.” 

Marie turned up her eyes and shook her head, but sub¬ 
mitted for all that. 

Monsieur Noiret’s money was paid the very next morn¬ 
ing, and before he had even time to ask for it. Whether he 
still thought that an attempt to deceive him had been made, 
and been defeated by chance alone, or whether he acquitted 
Madame la Roche and Fanny of the unworthy design, was 
more than either knew. He came no more, and gave his re¬ 
sentment at what had occurred no active or outward shape. 

A heavy burden now fell on Baptiste. True, Marie found 
a little work to do, and Fanny was fortunate enough to secure 
permanent employment; but still the wants of the house were 
many, and Baptiste never waited to see them twice before 
they were supplied, and time, weary time, passed away, and 
he seemed no nearer an end he never forgot, though he never 
mentioned it. 

Sometimes, not often, for the indulgence was perilous, 
Fanny looked at him wistfully, as much as to say : u When 
will it all end, Baptiste ? ” 

And Baptiste by a shrewd nod seemed to answer: “ All in 
good time, Fanny, all in good time.” And thus four years 
passed away. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

The March sun shone brightly. The day was fine. Charles 
said and thought so. “ Bonne maman says it will not rain,” 
he said, stopping short before Fanny, who sat sewing, and 
he looked at her wistfully. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


147 


Fanny sighed, hut did not reply. 

“ And this is a holiday,” pursued Charles, who had grown 
up into a fine strong boy, and who was handsome too, and 
tolerably good. 

Fanny sighed again. 

“ Poor child,” she said, half aloud, “ he wants a w T alk, and 
exercise would do him good.” 

Charles had heard her; he flung his arms around her neck. 

“ Qh! yes, Fanny, do, do!” he exclaimed, “ do take me 
out.” 

But Fanny, who, though still very pretty, had grown very 
sober and very grave, shook her head with mild denial. 

“ It is a holiday for you, hut not for me,” she said ; “ you 
see yourself that I must sew.” 

“ You could do it to-night,” whispered Charles ; “ I know 
you often sit up by the sly, burning candle ends—I see you.” 

F anny blushed. 

“I do not do it by the sly,” she said, “hut I make no 
noise, because I do not wish to waken them.” 

“Yes, and you do not want Baptiste to know,” suggested 
Charles, nodding. “Baptiste says it injures your eyes, and 
he does not like it. Baptiste is very fond of you.” 

“Of course he is,” said Fanny, quietly; “have you only 
just found that out, Monsieur Charles ? ” 

Monsieur Charles looked piqued, and said he had known 
it a long time. 

“ Oh! ” said Fanny, slowly. 

“Yes,” pursued Charles, “I have.” 

“ Baptiste told you, I suppose ? ” 

“ Oh ! no, he did not tell me.” 

Fanny questioned no more, but Charles’s wish of imparting 
information was too strong to be resisted, so he w r ent on. 

“ I know it, because the evening you were out late. Baptiste 
walked about the rooms, and struck his forehead, and said to 
bonne maman, ‘ I shall go mad if anything has happened to 
that girl.’ Charlotte and Marie said nothing had happened to 
you, but he would not mind them, and he was not quiet till 
you came in.” 

“And what did Baptiste say then?” asked Fanny, to 
whom the circumstances recalled by Charles, came back .like a 
dream. 

“Say! oh, he said nothing. And now, Fanny, do take 
me out.” 



148 


SEVEN YEAES. 


“ Go into the next room, and see if Charlotte or Marie want 
anything,” said Fanny. 

Charles obeyed all the more readily that, he concluded, this 
duty over, he and Fanny would take the walk he so longed for. 

Fanny was working in the front room, minding the dinner 
as well as her sewing. In the second room were, as of old, 
the two beds of Charlotte and Marie, but alas ! these two beds 
were now never vacant. Charlotte was a paralytic ; she could 
not even sit* up. A low fever had long been wasting Marie. 
Weary days and weary nights were now the lot of the two suf¬ 
ferers. Conversation, laments for youth and strength long 
gone, for old times and old happiness, mixed with an occasional 
tiff, by way of interlude, were now their chief solace. 

“ Ah ! Marie, times are changed since I entered the house 
of Madame la Koche,” sighed Charlotte, whilst Fanny and 
Charles were talking in the next room. “ I remember vou 
well, when Mademoiselle Cecile, Heaven give her poor soul 
peace, was a baby in arms, and you were as fine a Norman 
girl as ever was seen.” 

“ I used to be called la belle Normande ,” replied Marie, lift¬ 
ing up her pale head, in which two sunken eyes shone with 
unnatural fire. “ People knew me from my cap.” 

“ It became you,” murmured Charlotte ; “ you looked well 
in that cap, Marie, remarkably well.” 

“ A rosy face and a pair of black eyes would look well 
under anything,” sighed Marie; “ but I liked my cap, I con¬ 
fess I did. It reminded me of my native place, a pretty vil¬ 
lage, with the Seine flowing through, and a clean white 
church. Yes, Charlotte, I liked it, and when I took it off the 
last time, and took to my bed, Charlotte, I felt it was all over 
with me, ay, all over.” 

“Not all over,” said Charlotte, “you can stir, I cannot.” 

“ Stir,” moaned Marie, “ stir ! would I could not—would 
I were in my grave, and not a burden on them all.” 

“ I do think it singular that you will persist in wishing to 
die,” said Charlotte, with a touch of asperity; “ you know I 
have a positive presentiment that I shall not survive you, and 
to speak of your grave is just to wish me to be buried.” 

“ I suppose I may wish my own death,” said Marie, sharp¬ 
ly ; “ as to the death of other people, and as to their presenti¬ 
ments, pray what have I to do with them ? ” 

“ You have nothing to do with them,” replied Charlotte, 
with some of her old provoking calmness. “You are a passive 


SEVEN YE AES. 


149 


agent, a sign-post like, you do not know what you indicate, 
but others see and feel it.” 

“ A sign-post,” said Marie, rallying a little ; “ a sign¬ 
post,” she added, turning round, u ah ! well, times are changed 
indeed.” 

It was at this critical moment that Charles opened the 
door, and putting in his fair curly head, said glibly: 

“Fanny sends me to know if you want anything.” 

“ Fanny might come herself,” said Marie crossly; “ she 
might come and sit here with me, instead of leaving me to be 
insulted by her god-mother.” 

Charles coloured up. He loved no one, not even his grand¬ 
mother, as he loved Fanny, and to touch her was to rouse all 
his childish ire. 

“ Fanny cannot be in two places at once,” he said hotly, 
“ and she cannot be here and mind the dinner in the next 
room.” 

“ I always thought that to have a god-child was better 
than having a child of one’s own,” sighed Charlotte, from her 
bed, “ but it is not. My daughter left me to go off to Amer¬ 
ica, and my god-daughter will not even sit in the room with 
me. Ah ! well, it is a weary world, a weary world.” 

“ Then you want nothing ? ” said Charles, looking sulkily. 

“ Nothing !” almost screamed Charlotte, “ nothing ! did 
the child say % Why am I not to eat and drink ?—and have 
I had luncheon'?” 

Marie only moaned and said, “ She never got her drink 
nor anything.” 

Charles came back to Fanny with the information that 
Charlotte was very cross and wanted her luncheon, and that 
Marie was very cross and wanted her drink. 

“ Well, Charles, do you think we can go out and take a 
walk, and leave these two poor helpless sufferers who are cross 
only because they suffer,—do you think we can go out and 
take pleasure, and leave them alone ? ” 

Charles hung his head and did not reply. 

“ And now go in to your poor grandmamma,” said Fanny, 
“ this is the time when she likes you to read to her.” 

Charles looked very blank. 

“ I do not like to read to bonne maman,” he said, with 
more frankness than duty, “ it is tiresome.” 

“'Poor child, I dare say it is,” ejaculated Fanny, “but, 
Charles, if you do not learn early to do what you do not like, 


150 


SEVEN YEARS. 


you will find it a hard, very hard lesson when you are a man. 
And now go and be good. Your grandmamma expects you.” 

Charles obeyed, for under new, though tender, discipline, 
he had grown obedient, but before going, he threw his arms 
around Fanny’s neck and said coaxingly: 

“ You will ask Baptiste to buy me a drum, will you not ? ” 

“ Why not ask him yourself 1 ? ” said Fanny. 

“ Because he does not mind me, but he does whatever you 
ask him to do.” 

Fanny could not help smiling, but she would promise 
nothing, and Charles, compelled to feed on hope, went to 
Madame la Roche’s room. 

It was still a pretty, pleasant room, a little retired spot, 
which the cares and anxieties of the outer regions were not al¬ 
lowed to penetrate. 

There was a kind and gentle conspiracy from Marie down 
to Charles, to keep Madame la Roche in ignorance of troubles, 
which she would have felt too keenly, considering her utter want 
of power to suggest even a remedy for them. The caution w r as 
not superfluous : Madame la Roche had grown so weak during 
the last three years, that she seldom left the house. To sit 
by her window, in her arm-chair, to enjoy sunshine in fair 
weather, a bright fire in cold and frost, and to do nothing but 
linger on through life, was now her lot. She bore this feeble¬ 
ness and decay with the gentleness and patience of her nature. 
She might even have been called cheerful, so calm v'as the 
look of her mild blue eyes, so sweet the smile that lingered 
on her pale lips. Her greatest, perhaps her only, pleasure 
was to watch Charles growing up a fine healthy child, with 
some generous qualities, and not more than childhood’s usual 
amount of faults. 

She now saw him come in with a brightening look and a 
ready smile. “ Right, child,” she said, “ you did well to 
come, I felt dull,,and I do, not to have you every day. I 
suppose he must go to school,” added Madame la Roche, 
soliloquizing, “ but yet one would like to have him, for the 
little one has to live.” 

“Baptiste says I must know a great many things,” said 
Charles, alarmed at a speech in which he saw intimations of 
being kept from school for the gratification of his grand¬ 
mamma. 

“ Baptiste is an angel,” sighed Madame la Roche. 

Charles looked incredulous. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


151 

“ Angels have got wings,” he said, evidently holding the 
argument unanswerable. 

“ You will know better when you are older,” said Madame 
la Roche ; “ and now read me something, child.” 

“ Shall I read you the story of Aladdin and the Wonder¬ 
ful Lamp ? ” asked. Charles, who was tired of the classical 
authors whom, to form his taste and improve his morals, Mad¬ 
ame la Roche put into his hands. She seemed slightly sur¬ 
prised at the suggestion, but good-humoredly replied he might 
read what he pleased. So Charles perched himself upon a 
chair, and read how the tailor’s son married the Sultan’s 
daughter. 

Madame la Roche closed her eyes because it was unneces¬ 
sary and painful to keep them open, and she kept them closed 
because she was soon fast asleep. But zealously, with un¬ 
flagging zeal, Charles read on. He knew the tale by heart in 
all its windings ; no matter, it was a wonderful tale, and 
thrilled him through and through for all that. And whilst 
the grandmother slept, and the happy child read, Fanny, 
after administering to the wants of the two poor patients, 
after soothing them down with kind words and a kiss, was 
working hard and fast. “ If I could only lighten the load off 
Baptiste,” she thought. 

And Baptiste in his shop was working with equal ardor. 

“ I know that girl sits up at night,” he thought; “ if I 
could only make more money, and save her poor eyes—my 
little darling, would I were a rich man for your sake!” 

Noble hearts, with whom love was not selfish, with whom 
the performance of duty was not the cold absence of love. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Towards dusk, Fanny slipped down stairs, and timidly 
looked in at the grim porter. 

“ Any news, Monsieur Fecard % ” she asked. 

“ News ! what news should there be 1 ” he roughly replied. 

“ I cannot tell,” said Fanny, “ you see the papers.” 

“ What if I do ? Am I bound to be a newspaper for the 
lodgers % ” 

Fanny sighed, but did not answer. All this roughness 
was the price she had to pay every evening for intelligence 
they were too poor to purchase. Madame la Roche missed 
her newspaper, and, so far as she could, it was Fanny’s pleas- 


152 


SEVEN YE AES. 


lire to supply the loss. If Baptiste had but guessed this he 
would have given Madame la Roche two newspapers, rather 
than have his little Fanny reduced to such shifts; but the 
young girl was careful to conceal such necessities from his 
watchful eye,—better than any one she knew the heavy bur¬ 
den her love had brought him. For this, putting away pride 
and shame, she stole down every evening to Monsieur F6card, 
who, after rebuffing her, ended by giving her a condensed ac¬ 
count of the day’s paper. And so he did this evening too, 
and that in the following fashion : 

“ A child run over on the boulevards.” 

“ IIow very shocking ! ” said Fanny. 

“ Then what do you want to know it for % ” asked Mon¬ 
sieur Feeard; “do you not know that newspapers are made 
up of accidents, and murders, and fighting ? Why, there was 
a fire last night in the Faubourg St. Germain : a house burned 
down.” 

“ No one in it,” nervously said Fanny. 

“ There ! you want to have people burned too—I never 
heard any thing like it. I suppose you will be pleased to 
hear that a man murdered his wife, then shot himself in Vau- 
girard % Yes, yes, all that is in your way.” 

“ What could he murder his wife for 1 ? ” exclaimed Fanny, 
turning pale. 

“ For love, of course, or jealousy, if you like. As to 
politics, I never trouble my head about them. Monsieur 
Thiers is in; and the king is gone to Neuilly, and they talk 
of a war,—but what do 1 care about it all ? ” 

Monsieur Feeard hammered away, and Fanny, understand¬ 
ing that he had no more intelligence to give, thanked him 
softly, and stole up again. 

Carefully, and without affectation, she imparted her little 
stock of news to Madame la Roche, who said with much 
naivete : 

“ My dear, you are as good as a newspaper. Where did 
you learn all those wonderful things Going about! A 
house burned in the Faubourg St. Germain ! I wonder if it 
was Madame Guignol’s % ” 

Charlotte and Marie too, had their questions and com¬ 
ments ; and with a touch of the spirit of old times, that made 
Fanny happy, Marie exclaimed : 

“ She always was a wonderful girl.” 

And now the day was over, and every one slept save 
Fanny: Madame la Roche in her room; Charlotte and Marie 


SEVEN YEARS. 


153 


in theirs, and Charles in the front room, where his crib had 
been placed that he might be near Fanny in her closet, and 
not waken his grandmother too early. 

Fanny was still sewing ; she had some work to finish, and 
she sewed hard and fast. Now and then her needle flagged, 
as the street door opened and closed again with a heavy sound ; 
now and then she started as a step came up the staircase, and 
when nothing came of opening door or ascending step, Fanny 
sighed. There is no denying it, she was expecting some one 
—Baptiste, we need scarcely say. He came every evening. 
No matter what the weather might be, he came. Of late, 
whether it was that he had so much to do that he could not 
come earlier, or that he found it pleasanter to see Fanny when 
she sat alone by the crib of the sleeping child, Monsieur Bap¬ 
tiste managed not to come until he was pretty sure to have 
Fanny to himself. He did not stay later in consequence, and 
Fanny raised no objection to the arrangement. That hour of 
quiet converse, of remote plans, of hopes that might never re¬ 
ceive their fulfilment on earth, was the only solace of two 
hard-tasked lives. 

It was, therefore, with a little hart-sickening that Fanny 
saw the time pass that should have brought Baptiste ; it was 
with mingled impatience and uneasiness that she heard a heavy 
shower pattering against the window panes, and thought: 
“ tiresome old Baptiste,”—Baptiste was so far promoted to 
conjugal honours, that he was regularly called old Baptiste,— 
“ he will get wet.” 

There seemed every likelihood of it if he w*as out in that 
rain ; it came down furiously, and just as it was at its height, 
the street door shut with a loud clap. .Fanny felt sure it was 
Baptiste. She ran to the door, openod it, and listened on the 
staircase. A firm, but rather heavy step was coming up, and 
presently Baptiste appeared emerging from the gloom, smiling, 
and good-humoured as ever, but dripping from head to foot. 

Fanny welcomed him with a reproach. 

“ Oh ! why did you come ? ” she .said ; “ you are wet 
quite wet; you will be ill after this. You are very tiresome, 
Baptiste.” 

Baptiste received these reproaches with great placidity. 
And, indeed, though Fanny did the best to knit her smooth 
brow into a frown, her brown eyes were so kind, and her 
voice was so soft, spite its chiding, that even a more exacting 
lover than Baptiste need not have complained. Nor did he ; 
he entered the room, took off his cloth cap, shook his wet 
7 * 


f 


154 


SEVEN YEAJRS. 


clothes, arid sitting down by the stove, proceeded to dry him¬ 
self with quiet philosophy. Fanny sat opposite him and re¬ 
sumed her work. 

“ Every one well 1 ” asked Baptiste. 

“ My god-mother and Marie are as usual; Madame la 
Roche complained of fatigue ; Charles had a head-ache.” 

“ And you, Fanny ? ” 

“ Oh, I am well.” 

“ Put down that sewing, pray do.” 

Fanny put it down with a smile ; for she thought, “ I shall 
sit up and finish it to-night.” 

“ Do you know, Fanny,” said Baptiste, after a meditative 
pause, “ that it will not do so ; no, it really will not. I must 
get you another table; that one is too large, and takes up too 
much room.” 

“ Well, perhaps it does,” thoughtfully said Fanny. 

This requires explanation. Baptiste and Fanny had got so 
far familiarised with their position, that they well nigh con¬ 
sidered themselves married, and were in the habit of settling 
together sundry domestic concerns, like two old married 
people. The position of certain pieces of furniture in that 
little back room, which had been so long expecting Fanny’s 
presence, was a frequent subject of friendly debate; Baptiste 
found a particular pleasure in altering and improving his be¬ 
loved’s future home. Three times, at least, had he renewed 
or changed the whole ameublement, and there was especially a 
certain table, which might have been said to have travelled in 
and out and round the room, more than falls to the lot of 
most tables. 

This table Baptiste had now decided on removing alto¬ 
gether : it was too large. And Fanny agreed with him. But 
that was not all. Baptiste had another plan which he impart¬ 
ed to his mistress. 

“ Fanny,” he said after another pause, “ it is not the table 
I fear that is too large, but the place that is too small. We 
shall never be able to live in it, especially if God sends us 
children, as I hope He will; no, the place is too small. We 
must have a country house.” 

“ What! ” exclaimed Fanny, bewildered. 

“ I know what I am saying,” resumed Baptiste, with a 
grave smile, “ I have been thinking about it this week past. 
Just listen.” 

Fanny shook her head and looked incredulous; but she 
listened for all that. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


155 


“ I saw a piece of land just outside the barrier yesterday,” 
resumed Baptiste, “ a nice long bit, fit for a house and a garden 
at the end. Now I thought that would be pleasant. A house 
here, a little garden with a few flowers and fruit trees, a quiet 
little place overlooking green fields, and to which Fanny and 
I could go every Saturday night, nor dream of coming back 
till Monday morning. I tell you, Fanny, that for you and 
the children such a place would be worth its weight in gold. 
It would be life and health.” 

Fanny smiled at the ardour with which he spoke. She 
smiled at the happy visions his words called forth. She saw 
herself a matron, a mother with children at her knee, sons 
and daughters growing up around her, and she felt what every 
woman feels who dreams of sweet home ties. 

“ Now confess that would be just the thing,” said Baptiste, 
who was watching her face. 

Fanny awoke with a start. 

“ And if we have no children,” she said. “ God does not 
send them to all.” 

“ No children ! ” echoed Baptiste, looking blank, “no chil¬ 
dren ! Well, Fanny, if we have none, we shall suppose it is 
for the best. I once knew a man who was glad to have none,” 
musingly continued Baptiste, “ and he gave an odd reason for 
it too.” * 

“ What reason ? ” 

“ Why, that a woman had been sent to the galleys last 
week, and that a man was to be guillotined next Monday. 
He seemed to think the man might be his son and the woman 
his daughter. I cannot say I ever thought of that: though, 
to be sure, children are not always sent as a blessing; but 
children or no children, why should we not have a little coun¬ 
try place to breathe pure air in after being locked up a whole 
week 1 ” 

“ Why ! ” answered Fanny, “ for no reason that I know 
of—unless that we cannot.” 

“ There I have you, Mademoiselle,” triumphantly rejoined 
Baptiste. “ Let me tell you that the piece of ground I saw 
yesterday was for sale; let me tell you that I went and found 
out the landlord, and that it will go hard indeed if we do not 
come to terms.” 

“ But the money ! ” exclaimed Fanny. 

“ What do you call that % ” asked Baptiste, producing an 
old morocco pocket-book, which he opened, and whence he 
exultingly drew forth several bank notes, which he thumbed 


156 


SEVEN YEARS. 


carefully and placed beneath Fanny’s eyes ; “ is that money, 
eh ? ” he resumed, drawing in his breath; “ but perhaps you 
object to paper, Mademoiselle; well, then, here is gold for 
you.” And an old purse followed the pocket-book ; through 
its silk meshes gleamed many a Napoleon. Poor little Fanny 
was dazzled. 

“ Is all that money yours ? ” she cried, clasping her hands 
in amazement. 

“ Every sou of it,” replied Baptiste ; “ ah ! well, my mind 
is easy at last. I am not used to have secrets from you, 
Fanny, and that paper and gold have given me the night¬ 
mare : that is the truth.” 

“ Then you have had it a long time ? ” 

“ I have been scraping up these two years. This will 
more than do for the land: as to the house,” added Baptiste, 
a little ruefully, “ I shall have time to scrape up for that too, 
I dare say, for we are not making haste to get married. Well, 
never mind, what do you say to my plan, Fanny ? ” 

“ It seems too happy,” she replied, her eyes growing dim. 
“We have had so much trouble and care, that it seems too 
happy to think of having a pleasant little country house of 
our own,—of course I mean of the plainest, but still a place 
of our own,—where we could breathe fresh air, see green 
fields, and have a few flowers. But, Baptiste, the flowers will 
want watering once a day at the very least. What shall we 
do?” 


Baptiste scratched his head and looked puzzled, but only 
for a while. “ Ah ! bah ! ” he soon said, “ can I not go out 
every morning and water your flowers, and bring you a nose¬ 
gay to cheer your poor heart throughout the day ? I would 
say that you should live there altogether, but you see, Fanny, 
I am too selfish. I must have you both day and night.” 

“You do not suppose I want to live there by myself?” 
impatiently asked Fanny; “ why, who is to mind the shop 
and answer csutomers when you are out ? ” 

“ Who but my wife? very true, Fanny, very true. And 
yet it is a sin to let that house lie empty a whole week. You 
have no idea what a pretty place it will be. Just look here.” 

Again Baptiste opened his poket-book ; but this time he 
only tore out a blank leaf, on which, with the aid of a pencil, 
he began drawing a house for Fanny’s benefit. 

“ There,” he said, “ do you see it now ? That is the door; 
these are the three front windows: that is the roof; I need 
not put on the chimney—the builder will see to that.” 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


15T 


“ But I should like to see the inside of the house,” petu¬ 
lantly said Fanny, who was looking over his shoulder at the 
neat sketch he had drawn, for Baptiste, having often to alter 
or even to compose designs for his upholstery, had got to be 
something of a draughtsman. 

“ Then you shall see the inside,” he complacently de¬ 
clared ; “ just watch my pencil, that is all. Those two strokes 
are the passage which runs through the house to the garden ; 
on the right are the dining-room and kitchen; the kitchen 
looks on the garden.” 

“ Why so 1 ” asked Fanny. 

“ That you may have the smell of the roses whilst you are 
cooking, that is all. On the other side of the passage are two 
bed-rooms. If we should want room later,” philosophically 
added Baptiste, who evidently thought himself destined to 
be a patriarch, “ we can just throw up another floor. Eh ! 
Fanny % ” 

But Fanny scarcely heeded him. She was crying, and 
with a familiarity very unusual to her coy and capricious 
temper, she had laid her head on Baptiste’s shoulder. 

“ Do not talk so,” she said, “ it pains me. Oh ! Baptiste, 
my good old Baptiste, I shall never live in that pretty little 
house with you—never—never—I should be too happy.” 

“ My darling, do not speak so,” said Baptiste, looking sad 
and troubled, and involuntarily drawing her closer to him as 
he spoke; “ there is the money for the land, and the rest to 
build the house with will come too, God willing.” 

Ay, Baptiste, when we are grey. Oh ! I am wicked some¬ 
times, quite wicked. It seems so hard to spend a youth as we 
spend ours, apart, forever apart.” 

“ It is hard,” said Baptiste, moodily. 

Fanny gave him no reply. She slowly left his side. He 
rose and walked about the room with some agitation. His 
calm Flemish blood was not easily stirred, but when he 
thought of shortening this long courtship of his, it tingled 
in his veins, and removed reason from her throne. But not 
in vain was Baptiste gifted with that precious dower—judg¬ 
ment. Once, when Fanny proved faithless, it had given way 
before despair, and Baptiste, cool, calculating Baptiste Watt, 
had enlisted. But Fanny loved him now, and Baptiste could 
be patient. He sighed, took Fanny’s hands in his, and said 
emphatically : 

“ No, Fanny, we shall marry before we are grey, take my 
word for it.” 


158 


SEVEN YE AES. 


“ I am not in a hurry,” tartly said Famly. 

But Baptiste was a philosopher, and pursued without heed¬ 
ing the rebuff: 

“ And in the mean time we will build the house, and trust 
that God will let us live in it in His own good time.” 

Whatever Fanny thought of that prospect, she did not 
contradict her lover. To do so was to tread on dangerous 
ground. She heard him, her hands in his, sad resignation on 
her averted face. Whilst she stood thus shunning his glance, 
her eyes fell on the crib of forgotten Charles. The child was 
sitting up, his eyes wide open, staring at them with all his 
might. Fanny released her hands from Baptiste’s clasp, and 
went up to the boy. • 

“ Charles, what ails you % ” she said, uneasily. 

“ My head aches,” he replied. 

She took his hand, and dropped it frightened,—it felt like 
fire. 

“ The child is ill,” she whispered to Baptiste, “ look at 
him, his face is scarlet.” 

Baptiste felt alarmed, he himself could not have said 
why. 

“ I shall go and look for a doctor,” he said, looking for his 
cloth cap. “ There is nothing like taking care in time.” 

“ Why, you do not think the child is ill, do you 1 ” ex¬ 
claimed Fanny, forgetting that she had just declared he was ; 
“ besides, it is too late.” 

“ I do think the poor little fellow' is ill,” replied Baptiste, 
gravely, “ and it is not ten yet; so it is not too late. I shall 
be back in no time.” 

And, without waiting for remonstrance or reply, Baptiste 
v r as gone. 

“ Lie down,” said Fanny, bending over the child, v T ho 
obeyed with a moan-, and again said that his head ached. 

True to his w r ord, Baptiste speedily came back with the 
doctor; a mild grave man, v T ho occasionally attended on 
Madame la Roche and Marie. Fanny had carefully closed 
the door betw r een the front room where she sat, and that w'here 
Charlotte and Marie slept,—thus hoping to conceal from 
them and their mistress, the doctor’s visit. The medical man 
felt the child’s pulse, gave a look at his face, and said calmly, 
but positively : 

“ Do not be alarmed. I hope and trust it will be nothing: 
but it is scarlatina.” 

“ I knew it! ” exclaimed Baptiste, “ he looked just like 


SEVEN YEARS. 


159 


my neighbour’s children—and they died,” he added inter¬ 
nally. 

“ Scarlatina ! ” echoed Fanny, frightened. “ Oh ! this is 
a judgment on me for the wicked thoughts I had this evening.” 

“ 1 told you not to be alarmed,” said the medical man, 
gently, “ there is no immediate cause for fear. Keep him 
warm. I shall call again to-morrow.” 

He left them still amazed at the suddenness of this unex¬ 
pected blow. 

“ Poor boy, poor lad,” said Baptiste, who still saw the 
two little white coffins coming out of his neighbour’s house. 

“And you—and you!” exclaimed Fanny, with sudden 
terror ; “ oh ! Baptiste, go, go—if you were to take that 
disease and die !—go, for God’s sake go, and if you love me, 
do not enter this place till the child is well. Promise that 
you will not.” She hung from him, and looked up in his face 
with mingled entreaty and endearment. 

“ And if I may die, may not you 1 ” replied Baptiste. 
“ Oh ! Fanny, never say that, and never bid me shun a danger 
you must bear.” 

Baptiste’s voice was inexorable. All Fanny’s prayers and 
tears could obtain was, that he would leave her there and 
then ; but as they parted he added stubbornly : 

“ Mind, 1 shall come to-morrow.” 

“ I knew, I knew it was too happy,” thought poor Fanny, 
when left alone; “ I knew it could not be. There must be 
trouble, there must be woe, to make up for all my idle, happy 
years. Good bye to the house and garden now. I shall 
never be Baptiste’s wife, never, never.” 

And with a heavy foreboding heart she sat the whole night 
long by the child, who tossed and moaned on his little bed, 
oppressed with burning fever. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

It was only on wakening early the next morning that 
Madame la Roche learned the truth. Fanny entered her 
room, sat down by her bed, and told it her as tenderly as pos¬ 
sible. 

“ Scarlatina! ” exclaimed Madame la Roche, sinking back 
on her pillow, from which she had partly risen; “ scarlatina,” 
she added, clasping her hands, “ ah ! God help us.” 

“ The doctor says there is no danger as yet, and that there 


160 


SEVEN YEARS. 


may be none. And really, Madame, I think he is not so 
feverish this morning.” 

44 I must get up and see him,” said Madame la Roche, rising, 
44 my poor boy, my poor child, he was reading Aladdin’s 
Lamp to me yesterday, but 1 remember he did not finish it.” 

44 He will finish it yet,” said Fanny, trying to look cheer¬ 
ful, and helping Madame la Roche to dress. As she crossed 
the room where Charlotte and Marie lay, each in her bed 
awake and moaning, two complaining voices arrested her. 

44 A sad wakening for Madame,” said Charlotte plaintive¬ 
ly ; 44 if even I could be up to mind him as I minded his 
mother ! but no, he must be left to a foolish little thing like 
Fanny, who thinks more of talking with her lover than of 
minding the dear child.” 

Fanny blushed very much on perceiving that the previous 
evening’s discourse had been partly overheard bv her god¬ 
mother. 

“ Yes, yes,” said Marie, who had heard something too, 
44 Mademoiselle shuts our door, and leaves two poor old help¬ 
less things in the dark, whilst she sits and laughs with her 
beau.” 

44 I thought you were asleep,” faltered Fanny. 

44 Asleep ! ” said Marie, 44 whilst you and Monsieur Bap¬ 
tiste were talking away about houses and gardens, and that 
poor child was ill with fever ! No—no, we were not asleep.” 

44 It was Baptiste who went for the doctor,” said Fanny, 
rallying, 44 and you did not know this morning that the doctor 
had come, so I cannot help thinking you must have been 
asleep part of the time at least.” 

But Marie tossed in her bed, partly with fever, partly with 
anger. 

44 So the doctor came, and you did not ask me if I wanted 
to see him ! ” she exclaimed indignantly. 44 Perhaps you will 
say I am not ill.” 

44 He will come again this morning,” mildly said Madame 
la Roche, 44 and oh ! Marie, do let the poor child have peace. 
Any one can see she has had no sleep all night.” 

Marie, whose ill-humour was more the result of disease 
than of unkindly feeling, allowed herself to be mollified, and 
holding out her hand to Fanny, she said affectionately : 

44 Poor child, you will have a good riddance of two cross 
old things when we are'gone. Will she not, Charlotte'? ” 

44 1 was always of opinion that prudent people spoke for 


SEVEN YEARS. 


161 


themselves, and not for their neighbours,” replied Charlotte, 
with considerable dignity. 

Marie leaned on one elbow: a contest seemed inevitable; 
but Fanny succeeded in checking* it for once. 

“ You are not two cross old things,” she said, trying to 
look gay, “ you are two darlings ; and your breakfast is 
ready.” 

She brought their meal in as she spoke ; she served Marie 
first, as best able to help herself, then she sat by her god¬ 
mother’s bed, and fed her like a child. 

“ Ah ! well, all flesh is but grass,” sighed Marie, putting 
away the bowl of soup she could scarcely taste. “ There was 
a time when I thought appetite would never fail me, and I 
cannot eat what a child would make a mouthful of; and then 
to see a stout woman like Charlotte fed with a spoon like a 
baby. It is pitiable,—pitiable. Fanny, never marry, it is 
all vanity,—all vexation of spirit.” 

“ I am not going to marry just yet,” replied Fanny, with 
a touch of impatience. 

“ Ay, but you think about it.” 

“ I think about my poor little Charles who is lying ill and 
moaning, and who did not sleep all night,” was Fanny’s reply, 
“ and i think about you, and my poor god-mother, and 
Madame la Roche, and all sorts of things besides getting 
married.” 

“ Yes, dear, but you think of that too,” persisted Marie, 
determined to have the last word. 

Fanny might not, however, have left it to her but for the 
arrival of the doctor. 

“ Mind you send him to me,” said Marie, holding Fanny’s 
dress to compel her attention, “ or if you do not, tell him my 
head aches.” 

Fanny raised her finger warningly, and whispered : 

“ Let me go, Marie ; I want to go down for something or 
other, and meet the doctor on the staircase as he leaves Charles. 
He may tell me more than he will to Madame la Roche.” 

Marie seemed bewildered at this intimation of danger, but 
she obeyed. She listlessly released Fanny’s dress, and let 
her go. The young girl passed swiftly through the outer 
room, and slipped down-stairs, scarcely heeded by Madame la 
Roche, who, sitting by the child with his hand in hers, listened 
anxiously to every word uttered by the doctor. 

Fanny’s excuse for an errand was soon accomplished. Yet 
in her fear of missing the doctor, she ventured to question tne 


162 


SEVEN YEAES. 


cross porter, who, perhaps because she did her best to soothe 
him, seemed twice as cross with her as with any one else. 

“ Do you know if the doctor is gone, Monsieur Fecard ? ” 
she asked timidly, standing on the threshold of the lodge. 

Monsieur Fecard raised his turbaned head, for the cotton 
handkerchief around it was part and parcel of his existence, 
and bending towards Fanny his not over-clean face, which a 
half-shaved beard did not improve, he said roughly : 

“ The doctor—what doctor ? ” 

“ Our doctor, Monsieur Fecard.' 5 

“ And how should I know your doctor, or do you suppose 
there is only one doctor in the world, eh ? ” 

Fanny did not answer; she had caught the sound of a step, 
and knew it was the doctor coming down. She waited for 
him at the foot of the stairs. He saw her, nodded, and w'ould' 
have passed by without speaking, but she stopped him with 
the question : 

“ Pray, sir, how is the child ? Pray, sir, tell me the truth,” 
she added imploringly, “ some one must know it, and I have 
most strength to bear.” 

“ If I could say positively that there is no danger I would,” 
said the doctor kindly ; “ but though I do not deny that the 
poor little fellow is very ill, I see no reason to give up hope 
as yet. There, take courage, my good girl, take courage.” 
And giving her a gentle nod and a pat on the cheek, he went 
his way. 

Fanny was stunned. She had spoken of danger, but with¬ 
out believing in it, and now the doctor spoke of danger as 
certain, of hope as doubtful, and taking her at her word, as 
one able to bear, he had disguised nothing from her. Fanny 
loved the child dearly ; she had toiled for him day and night; 
she had sacrificed much to his welfare. The thought that he 
could die filled her with dismay. Unable to go up and face 
Madame la Roche at once, she sat down.on the last step of the 
staircase, and tried to gather strength. 

“ May I ask what you are doing there?” said Monsieur 
Fecard, putting his head out of the lodge. “ Do you mean to 
take up the staircase and prevent people from going up and 
down ? ” 

“ I shall get up when any one comes,” said Fanny, sub¬ 
missively. “ Pray let me stay here a while, Monsieur Fecard, 
I do not want them to know I have seen the doctor.” 

“ Then why do you cry, if you do not want them to know? ’ 


SEVEN YEARS. 


163 


was Monsieur Fe card’s rough question. Fanny did not an¬ 
swer. 

“ You cry,—you cry, because you think there is no trouble 
like your trouble. I suppose people who have been well off 
cannot get it out of their heads that their children are not of 
the same flesh and blood with the children of the poor. No, 
no, they are Sevres porcelain, and we are baked clay,—that 
is it, eh 1 ” 

44 I was the child of poor parents,” said Fanny, quietly, 
44 but if I had been her own child, Madame la Roche could not 
have been kinder to me than she was.” 

44 Humph ! ” growled the porter suspiciously,—for he was 
a prejudiced democrat; 44 and so the little fellow is ill! ” he 
added ; 44 well, Mademoiselle Fanny, you think a great deal 
of your trouble,—what do you think of mine % I had seven 
children and a wife, all in this lodge, in this house. The land¬ 
lord threatened to turn me out; he said it was outrageous— 
that when he took me I had but one child, and that he would 
not allow seven squalling children in a room six feet square. 
I told him he might turn me out when he pleased, but that if 
he sent my seven little things to starve in the streets, just for 
the sin of being born, I would not answer for what I might 
do, as I might turn desperate. The landlord showed me later 
that he was a kind man ; then I thought him a coward,—for 
he certainly spoke no more of turning out me or mine. Well, 
Mademoiselle Fanny, you sit listening there with all your 
ears, and yet you guess well enough how it ended. The seven 
little things that annoyed the whole house with their squalling 
are quiet now. Gone, all gone. They dropped off like ripe 
fruit from a tree; one after the other I took them to the cem¬ 
etery. When the last went, their mother, who had kept up 
till then, took to her bed, lingered a few months, and died too. 
It was then the landlord showed his real heart, which was 
kind; he had paid the doctor who attended my little things, 
and he saw my poor wife to the grave. Well, as I said, the 
place is quiet now. I sit and work alone, and hammer away, 
and grumble at every one, and never forget my seven little 
ones,—no, not one hour in the day. For a long time I could 
not look on children. I have got over that; but when I see 
people fretting over small troubles, I think of mine. You 
look very pitiful, Mademoiselle Fanny, but you seem able to 
say nothing,—say nothing—say nothing,” said Monsieur Fe- 
card, hammering at the sole of a boot, 44 1 cannot bear being 
comforted.” 


164 


SEVEN YEARS. 


There was, indeed, something in his look as he spoke, that 
told of one whom consolation, however well meant, was more 
likely to exasperate than to calm. Fanny was going up with¬ 
out saying a word, when he looked out of his lodge and whis¬ 
pered hoarsely : 

“I shall be sweeping the staircase this afternoon: just 
come out when you hear me, to ask me not to make any noise, 
and then you can tell me how the child is getting on.” 

“ I shall,” said Fanny, and she went up slowly, thinking 
over Monsieur Fecard’s troubles, until the sight of Charles’s 
flushed face, as she entered the room where he lay with Mad¬ 
ame la Roche sitting by him, made her forget the porter’s 
grief in her own present anxieties. 

“ My dear, how long you have been gone,” said Madame 
la Roche. “ I am sorry you missed the doctor.” 

“ I went for some candied sugar for Charles,” said Fanny, 
“ I promised him some the other day.” 

“ I am not hungry,” said Charles, “ I shall never be hun¬ 
gry or eat again,—never.” 

“ My darling, do not say that,” exclaimed his grand¬ 
mother, uneasily. “ You will get well and eat again.” 

But Charles persisted in declaring that he would eat no 
more. 

The words seemed prophetic to Madame la Roche. She 
clasped her trembling hands, and tears streamed down her 
cheeks. Fanny, too, felt very much inclined to cry. Charles 
was a dear child, but there was no denying that he had a de¬ 
cided relish for sweets, cakes, and pleasant food of any kind. 
To hear him declare that he had done with these delights, and 
to see him lying sick and feverish in his little crib, was to re¬ 
ceive indeed a sad forewarning of what a few days might bring 
forth. And Fanny, as we said, felt a great mind to cry ; but 
she soon checked it. “ Cry,” she said to herself, “ what for 1 
and what good will it do ? None, but a great deal of mis¬ 
chief. Now is the time to be brave, as Baptiste often says I 
am, and brave I will be.” 

And brave to the best of her power Fanny was. 

Surely, Madame,” she said to Madame la Roche, “ you 
know better than to mind what a child says. Eat again ! why 
he will eat before a week is out.” 

“ I know I am very weak,” deprecatingly observed Mad¬ 
ame la Roche, “ I know I am, Fanny.” 

“ No, no, you are not! ” exclaimed the young girl, who 
had no wish to be too brave, “ it is I who am rough and rude, 


SEVEN YEARS. 165 

all because I do not wish to give in. Nor will I, no indeed, I 
will not.” 

And to show the strength of her resolve, Fanny went in 
at once to Charlotte and Marie, cheered them with a few 
bright words, made Madame la Roche’s room clean and tidy, 
then went back to the little sick bed, and insisted on being 
left there. 

“ You need rest,” she said to Madame la Roche, “ you 
want a little comfort in your arm-chair, and it is rest and 
comfort to me to sit by my little Charles.” 

In short, Fanny had so many arguments all excellent, that 
Madame la Roche ended by yielding. 

The day passed wearily enough; the child slept heavily, 
or lay in his crib oppressed with fever. Every quarter of an 
hour Fanny was called away by the querulous voices of Char¬ 
lotte and Marie, and when she went in to them their worn 
and anxious faces turned towards her, as they asked in a 
breath : 

“ Well, how is he 1 ” 

“Just about the same,” replied Fanny, trying to look 
cheerful, as if “ the same ” were good news. 

Madame la Roche was more patient. She put no ques¬ 
tions, but every now and then she left her room and came 
and bent over the child’s crib, with a sad and troubled look, 
that went to Fanny’s very heart, perhaps because it was given 
silently, because she who looked so went away again without 
uttering a word. She spoke but once : it was to mutter as 
she turned from the bed : “ Why must the old live, and the 
young go 1 ” 

The evening had set in : every thing was quiet. Madame 
la Roche and Fanny were sitting by the child’s bed, they were 
silent; but through the open door of the next room the voices 
of Charlotte and Marie were heard indulging in that subdued 
lamentation which had become like the Greek chorus of the 
little household ; its repining reproaches and exhortations not 
much more heeded by Fanny and Madame la Roche than by 
the heroes of the ancient drama. 

“ He seems very listless,” whispered Madame la Roche, 
glancing from the boy’s flushed face and closed eyes to 
Fanny’s pale and worn countenance. 

“ He feels it more at night,” was the young girl’s slow 
reply. She was listening to the well-known step coming up 
the staircase; before he rang she was at the door to open it 
for him. 



166 


SEVEN YE AES. 


“ How is the child ? ” were the first words uttered by 
Baptiste, who, long before Fanny had wakened Madame la 
Roche in the morning, had come to put the same question. 

“No worse, I hope,” was Fanny’s reply. Baptiste en¬ 
tered, and was welcomed by Madame la Roche with the cor¬ 
diality due to so tried a friend. On hearing the sound of his 
voice, Charles, with whom Baptiste was a favourite, opened 
his languid eyes, and brightened up a little. Baptiste sat 
down by the bed, and looked ruefully at its little suffering 
tenant. 

“ What can I do for you, my fine little fellow ? ” he asked. 

“ Nothing,” was the low reply. 

“ What shall I give you,—cakes, sweets ? ” 

“ No, no,” moaned Charles, “ I shall never eat again.” 

“ For God’s sake, child, do not say that! ” exclaimed 
Madame la Roche, clasping her hands with anguish ; “ do not, 
do not—it breaks my heart.” 

Charles looked at her without understanding the cause of 
so much grief. 

“ And must I give you nothing ? ” persisted Baptiste. 

The child’s face brightened. 

“ Give me a drum,” he said, with something like eagerness. 

“ A drum ! ” said Baptiste, taken by surprise, “ well, why 
not ? You shall have a drum to-morrow.” 

“ No, no,—now,” said the boy, feverishly, “ give it to me 
now, Baptiste.” 

“ Well, you shall have it now, if the shop be not shut,” 
said Baptiste, stoutly. “ I shall be back in five minutes, 
Fanny.” 

He started up and hurried down stairs, and stayed away 
not five minutes, but an hour and a half. At length his step 
was heard again. 

“ That is Baptiste,” said Madame la Roche. 

“ Bringing me the drum,” said Charles. 

“ My dear, it is late ; I dare say Baptiste could not get it.” 

But Fanny had already opened the door, and Baptiste had 
entered holding the drum aloft. Charles stretched out his 
eager hands to receive it. 

“ Ay, there it is,” said Baptiste, wiping his shining fore¬ 
head ; “ all the shops around here w^ere shut, so I had to go to 
the boulevards for it; otherwise I should have been here 
earlier.” 

Of his trouble Baptiste did not speak. 


SEVEN YEARS. 167 

Fanny had placed the toy 4n the child’s hands ; he felt it 
all over with something like joy, then he said : 

“ I should like to sit up and play a little.” 

Fanny supported him in her arms ; Madame la Roche 
held the drum, and Baptiste placed the sticks in his fingers. 
Charles looked at them, vaguely smiling, and with his little 
feeble hands he tried to beat the French boy’s ran-tan-plan. 
He only awoke broken uneven sounds, but still he beat on. 
It was a pitiable sight: the unconscious child playing even in 
the jaws of death, and smiling in the three weeping faces 
around him ; for they all wept: Madame la Roche, slow bit¬ 
ter tears; Fanny as if her heart would break, and Baptiste 
like a child. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

For a week the child was in danger; for a week Fanny 
worked by day, and watched by night. In vain Madame la 
Roche wanted the young girl to sleep, and said she would sit 
up ; Fanny would not listen to the suggestion. She was 
young, she said, and well able to bear it. No more would 
she heed Marie’s suggestion of bringing in the child’s crib and 
placing it by her side; for Marie, being already unable to 
sleep, concluded she was therefore fit to watch, and resented 
the rejection of so well-contrived a plan. 

“ But young people are conceited, that is the truth of it,” 
she remarked to Charlotte; “ they will be in the right, and 
are not ashamed, not they, to prove their elders in the 
wrong.” 

“ Very true ! ” sighed Charlotte. “ I once knew as con¬ 
ceited an old woman as ever was. I was then fifteen, and 
wanted to thread her needle for her. ‘ Child, you are blind,’ 
she said, ‘ blind as a mole.’ ” 

“ The old story,” murmured Marie, but she had made a 
promise to Fanny that during Charles’s illness she would not 
quarrel with Charlotte, and, strange to say, she kept it. 

For a week, as we said, the child was in danger ; then one 
morning the doctor kindly patted him on the head, and said 
emphatically: 

“ There, he will do now—I need not come to-morrow.” 

Fanny cried for joy; Madame la Roche cried; Baptiste’s 
eyes were dim ; and tears marked the rejoicings of Charlotte 
and Marie. Charles alone laughed and beat his drum, and, 


168 


SEVEN YE AES. 


to his grandmamma’s infinite satisfaction, showed tokens of 
reviving appetite. 

Spite her fatigue, Fanny felt very happy. Charles was 
getting well; he had passed safely through his dangerous dis¬ 
ease, and every one around him had escaped the contagion. 
Once more the heavy clouds cleared away from the horizon, 
and the pleasant visions this mischance had rudely dispelled, 
were again floating before the young girl’s eyes. 

Happy and dreamy she sat, with Charles and Baptiste. 
Madame la Roche had been persuaded to go to bed and rest; 
Charlotte and Marie were sleeping; Charles v r as talking to 
Baptiste, and Fanny was dreaming. 

“ I wonder if Baptiste will soon see about that house,” she 
thought, “ I mean about the land, of course, the house must 
come later. Well, it will be a place ! I shall have roses and 
geraniums—I like geraniums—and lilacs and laburnums, in 
memory of old times; and Madame la Roche always liked 
them. Madame la Roche—where will she be then ? gone, gone 
—and I dare to dream of happiness, and lay plans on a grave.” 

She cast a troubled look around her, then calmed down, 
and smiled as she saw Baptiste’s honest face, and listened to 
the talk between him and Charles. The boy was treating his 
friend to fragments from the story of Aladdin and his Lamp. 
Baptiste was not of an imaginative turn. He heard him, 
amazed to think that such extravagant nonsense should be 
put into the hands of children; this criticism, however, he 
kept to himself, and only made one dry remark, on hearing 
Charles expatiating on the garden where trees bore rubies 
and emeralds, by way of fruit. 

“ Ay, ay,” said Baptiste, u they grew thick enough, I 
warrant you; thick as lies, no doubt.” 

“ But it is a story,” said Charles. 

“ Yes, child, I know. Emeralds and rubies never do grow 
so thick, unless in stories—go on.” 

And right willingly Charles went on, whilst Fanny listened. 
Oh ! for a pluck at one of those wonderful trees ; for just one 
of those sparkling apples or peaches, whatever they might be ! 
“I know what I should do with it,” thought Fanny; “I 
would go with it to the king ; he would buy it at once, and set 
it in the crown of France ; and Baptiste and I would get mar¬ 
ried, and buy a little chateau, where Madame la Roclie and 
Charles, and Charlotte and Marie, would all live with us; and 
truly we would all be as happy as so many kings and queens.” 

A plaintive voice disturbed this agreeable meditation. 




SEVEN YEARS. 169 

<£ Fanny,” called Marie, from within, “ Fanny come to me.” 

Fanny started, and went at once. 

Marie was sitting in her bed, so ghastly pale, that Fanny 
uttered a subdued exclamation of alarm. 

“ I am very ill,” said Marie, in a low voice, “ I am going to 
die, I know I am.” 

“ What is she saying ? ” asked Charlotte, nervously, “ who 
talks about dying?” 

“ Nonsense,” said Fanny, trying to smile, “ Marie feels 
faint, that is all.” 

She called Baptiste, and whilst she supported Marie, re¬ 
quested him to bring her a glass of water and eau de fleurs d ’ 
or anger, a specific much in use with the French; but though 
Marie raised the glass to her lips, it brought back no colour to 
her cheek, no light to her eyes. 

“No use—no use,” she said, sinking back on her pillow : 
“ my day has come; I am dying, I know I am, and Charlotte 
says she will soon follow me.” 

“ Who talks about my dying ? ” said Charlotte, “ I know 
I heard my name.” 

“ Go for the doctor,” whispered Fanny to Baptiste, and she 
went in to waken Madame la Boche, whilst Charlotte indig¬ 
nantly wondered what they meant by bringing Baptiste into 
her room, and by not answering her when she spoke. 

Gently though Fanny called her, Madame la Boche awoke 
with a start, and exclaimed : 

“ The child has had a relapse ! ” 

“ No Madame,” replied Fanny, in her lowest voice, “ but 
Marie looks very ill; Baptiste is gone for the doctor; yet I 
think i.t may do her good if you will get up and say a few 
words to her.” 

“ Marie ill,” exclaimed Madame la Boche; “ I bade her 
good night, and she then looked just as usual. Are you sure, 
child, you are not mistaken ? ” 

“ Quite sure, Madame,” replied Fanny, rather sadly, for 
she had seen death written in Marie’s face. 

“ I shall get up at once,” said the lady; “ my poor old 
servant! she has often said it: Madame, you will bury us 
both.” 

Fanny returned to Marie, and found her lying very quiet, 
but still wearing the same look that had startled her. Char¬ 
lotte had closed her eyes, and seemed to be thinking. Charles 
was playing alone in the next room, neither knowing nor un- 


8 


170 


SEYEN YEAKS. 


derstanding what was passing. Madame la Roche came out 
and sat by Marie. 

“ Marie, what ails you ? ” she ashed. u Are you in pain ? ” 

“ No, Madame—but I am dying.” 

Madame la Roche was startled at the calmness with which 
Marie spoke. 

“ Impossible,” she said; “ you are ill, I know, you have 
been ill a long time, but it is only some sudden faintness you 
now feel.” 

“ I am dying,” repeated Marie, “ and Fanny might have 
spared herself a doctor’s fee; he is a kind gentleman, and has 
got Monsieur Charles through, but he will do me no good— 
my time is come, and I must go.” 

She spoke in a tone of settled conviction that silenced the 
words on Madame la Roche’s lips, and kept Fanny mute. 
The return of Baptiste broke on their silence. He looked 
disappointed and annoyed : the doctor was in the country at¬ 
tending some distinguished patient, and his assistant was en- 
gaged. 

“ I tell you I want no one to help me to die,” said Marie, 
a little testily, “ no one but a priest, if you will go for one, 
Baptiste.” 

Madame la Roche was a good woman, but she belonged to 
the wide class of individuals, with whom a cassock in a sick 
room was a sure omen of death. 

“ Dear me,” she said, nervously, u will not to-morrow do, 
Marie ? ” 

“ And if the thief should come to-night ? ” answered Marie; 
“ like a thief in the night; Madame, you know it as well as 
I do.” 

Madame la Roche felt helpless and weak. She looked at 
Fanny, she looked at Baptiste, she clasped her hands, and 
seemed to ask for aid. 

“ Marie will die none the sooner if a good man comes and 
comforts her in Grod’s name,” said Fanny, resolutely. u Bap¬ 
tiste go for the cure.” 

The obedient Baptiste went. 

“ I should like to see Monsieur Charles though before I 
go,” said Marie, after a while; u Fanny, wheel in his little 
crib to me.” 

Fanny wheeled it in, and presently Charles, who had fallen 
fast asleep, found himself by the sick woman’s bed. She 
looked disappointed when her glance fell on his slumbering 
face. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


171 


“1 should have liked to have seen his nice blue eyes 
again,” she said, “ but no matter, I know them by heart. God 
bless him, he will bury the old, and be a comfort to the young; 
take him away, take him away. I have that to say, I could 
not say if I looked on his little quiet face.” 

Fanny removed the child, who had not wakened, then came 
back to the foot of the bed, and Marie fixed her lustrous eyes 
on the young girl’s face, and raising a fore-finger, said warn- 
ingly: 

“ Mind, Fanny, no waste of money about funeral or all 
that. It does the poor dead body no good, and the living 
suffer for it. I have helped to drain Baptiste’s purse long 
enough. No, child, nothing of that; a little mound of earth, 
a black cross, and grass, will do for an old servant who has 
outlived her time, since she can wait no more on her mistress, 
but must be waited on herself.” 

u We need not talk about all that, Marie,” quietly said 
Fanny. 

“ And if it pleases me to talk ! ” testily said Marie, “ if I 
like to settle what is to be done for me.” 

“ Ay Marie, but you grieve us,” and the tears that stood 
in Fanny’s eyes showed these were not empty words. 

“ She always was a soft-hearted little thiDg,” said Marie, 
turning to Madame la Boche; “ I have seen that child cry 
over a dead sparrow, cry for hours. And now she cries over 
me, and never thinks: What a good riddance! so much less 
between me and liberty, and with liberty love, and all that! 
No, no, not she.” 

Marie’s utterance of the last words was not sufficiently dis¬ 
tinct for Fanny to apprehend their full meaning; but Madame 
la Boche did, and casting a look from Marie to Charlotte, who 
lay in her bed with folded hands and closed eyes, and think¬ 
ing of herself, as great and heavy a burden as either of her 
two servants, she thought too: u Ay, Marie, you are right 
enough, it would be well if she were rid of the whole of us— 
and free.” 

And now came a sad and solemn scene; Baptiste had re¬ 
turned, and brought with him the cure, a grave and quiet man, 
too much used to death-bed scenes not to remain calm and 
composed through all their sadness. Marie thanked him 
warmly for coming. 

“ I did my duty,” he quietly replied, sitting down by her. 
He glanced round the room as if wishing to remain alone with 
the dying woman. 


172 


I 


SEVEN YEARS. 


11 Yes, yes, they will all go,” said Marie, u and you will not 
mind Charlotte, Monsieur le cure. I shall speak low, so that 
she shall not hear a word I shall say to you, and you may 
think this is a ward in an hospital, as it is, indeed, with poor 
little Fanny for nurse and doctor. 

“ It will do,” said the cure, as they were left alone, and 
bending his ear to her lips, he heard her confession. When he 
had given her absolution, Charlotte spoke. 

“ Now, sir,” she said, “ as this is a ward in an hospital, 
perhaps you will hear me too.” 

The priest looked at her. He saw no signs of death in her 
worn face; but approaching death was not needed for him to 
comply with her request. He did so at once. 

When Charlotte, too, had ceased the record of her sins, the 
priest opened the door. Madame la Roche, Fanny, and Bap¬ 
tiste re-entered and knelt around the bed, whilst the cure ad¬ 
ministered the last sacraments of the church to the dying 
woman, for really dying Marie was, though still composed and 
calm. In collected speech she thanked the priest—who, after 
lingering to say a few kind words, now took his leave—for 
having come so readily. 

‘ I know it was a late hour to trouble you at,” she said, 
“ but I feared I could not wait till morning, that is the truth 
of it.” 

“ I shall come again to-morrow morning,” said the cure, 
quietly. 

Marie did not contradict, but she smiled as he went. 

Indeed, sudden as was the warning, it was apparent to all 
around her that Marie was sinking fast. Her mind began to 
wander, strange speeches found their way to her lips. 

“ And who will iron Madame’s caps when I am gone ? ” she 
asked once, looking hard at Fanny. “ Not Charlotte, you 
know.” 

No one answered. A little later she said, not seeming 
conscious that she spoke in Charlotte’s hearing, “ I always liked 
Charlotte; we quarrelled, I know, but I liked her. She will 
miss me—but not long—not long. There is an old story that 
if two oxen draw the same plough together for a few years, 
and that if one goes the other follows,”—then turning to Mad¬ 
ame la Roche, she took her hand and said impressively : 
“ Madame, God bless you—you have been a good mistress to 
me. God bless you. I wish your two servants could stay 
with you a little while yet, but you see God takes them away 


SEVEN YEARS. 


173 


when they are useless,—it is right—it is right. His holy will 
be done.” 

She spoke no more. Her eyes grew heavy and dull, a sigh 
passed her lips, and Marie was gone 

Madame la Roche and Fanny wept in silence. Baptiste 
looked at the dead woman’s face, and seemed strucked with 
amazement and grief, and they none of them saw that Char¬ 
lotte, recovering sudden strength and power in the shock of the 
moment, had sat up in her bed, and was staring at them all 
with rigid face and stony eyes. She sank back on her pillow 
unheeded and unseen, but with death in her heart. 

French law compels speedy burial. On the following day 
but one Marie was buried in the cemetery of Montmartre. 
Her funeral, though plain, was not such as she had requested ; 
but Baptiste would not consent to economy. 

“ The woman who helped to rear my little Fanny,” he said, 
“shall not have a charity funeral whilst Baptiste Watt has a 
franc in his pocket. She shall have a place of her own in the 
cemetery, and a stone with her name on it over her grave.” 

And Baptiste spoke as stoutly as if he had to resist oppo¬ 
sition which no one dreamed of. Madame la Roche not con¬ 
ceiving that she had the right to interfere between Baptiste 
and what he considered his duty, and Fanny not having the 
inclination, Charlotte alone spoke : 

“ Baptiste need not be so very lavish of his money,” she 
said, “ he will have another funeral before the week is out.” 

She spoke gravely, and the uneasiness her words, confirmed 
by her aspect, created in Madame la Roche and Fanny, divert¬ 
ed the first strength of their grief for the loss of one who, 
though often cross-grained, had been none the less the true 
and faithful friend of many years. They sent for the doctor, 
who had returned to town. He found nothing the matter 
with Charlotte, nothing, at least, beyond her usual ailments, 
nor did she say that much ailed her; she complained of no 
pains; she only persisted in declaring that she was to die soon. 
Nothing could weaken a belief that'was calculated to work its 
own fulfilment. 

The third day after Marie’s death Charlotte began to 
sicken. “ Now is the time,” she said; “ the two oxen that 
have drawn the same plough for so many years cannot remain 
long apart. She is gone, and I am going.” 

Arguments, the gentlest reasoning, did not shake Charlotte’s 
conviction. “ Let me be quiet,” she said, a little impatiently, 



174 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ you always will know better than I know. Yet I suppose 
this concerns me.” 

And with the same calmness that Marie had shown, though 
with such difference as the difference of temper naturally 
warranted, Charlotte began to prepare for what she called the 
last journey. Her first act was to send for the cure, who 
came rather surprised to find her presentiments so soon ful¬ 
filled. 

“ Marie was a good girl,” said Charlotte, but she always 
put off everything to the end: I will not do like her.” 

Nor did she, for she lingered four days after the priest’s 
visit. The end, as she called it, came on a bright April morn¬ 
ing, when Fanny and Madame la Roche were with her. 

“ Marie,” she said, “ Marie, make haste, Madame wants 
y°u.” 

And uttering the words she sank back and died. 

Madame la Roche calmly closed her eyes, and gently kiss¬ 
ing her withered cheek, said softly : 

“ I outlive them all, Fanny; Marie, who dressed me on 
my wedding day, Charlotte, who nursed my only child. I am 
alone now—alone.” 

Fanny took her hand and kissed it. “ Baptiste and I will 
be your children and your faithful servants,” she said. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

The grief of Madame la Roche was calm like her gentle 
nature. She missed them both, as she said; but then she 
would add, with a smile that smote Fanny’s heart, “ I shall 
soon go to them.” 

“ Pray do not say that,” the young girl would exclaim, 
“ pray do not.” / 

“Very well, my dear, I shall not,” was the quiet reply, 
and Madame la Roche said it no more. 

“ But she thinks it,” Fanny said to Baptiste, “ she thinks 
it, and it grieves me.” 

She dropped her work, and leaned her head upon her hand. 
She was sitting alone with Baptiste; between them burned 
the lamp; near them stood the bed of the sleeping child; but 
the door of the next room was open, and no repining at being 
forsaken, at lovers and their selfishness, came from the silent 
beds. Madame la Roche was in her room, for it was some¬ 
what late. 


SEVEN YEAK3. 175 

“ Fanny,” said Baptiste, with a suddenness that startled 

her. 

“ What is it ? ” she asked, looking up. 

“ Is not this very like the evening when Monsieur Charles 
was taken ill with scarlatina ? To me it seems so like. Do 
you remember what we spoke of that evening ? ” 

“ Yes,” slowly replied Fanny ; “ you wanted to buy land 
and build a house.” 

“ Fanny, the land is bought, and the house is built.” 

“ I understand,” said Fanny, quietly, “ the money is 
spent.” 

“Just so, my good little girl: the money is gone: the 
doctor, the two funerals, and the two graves—Heaven have 
mercy on their poor souls—took it all. And now, Fanny, 
why do I tell you this? Firstly, because, being almost my 
wife, you have a right to know; secondly, because, though I 
dreamed of that house, and of that particular bit of land till 
my brain seemed turned inside out, I would not have you 
think a moment, Fanny, that I regret having spent the money. 
No, I am grieved for the two poor old souls that are gone; 
but though I am fond of money—and who is not ?—I would 
not call back one sou of this. Not one sou, Fanny.” 

Fanny held out her hand to Baptiste, who squeezed it 
carefully, and returned it respectfully to its owner. 

“And now,” he continued, “that is not all. We must 
think of Madame la Boche. The little fellow,” he added, 
glancing fondly at Charles in his crib, “ is getting on finely; 
but Madame la Boche is weak, and she gets weaker every day, 
to my seeming.” 

“ She does,” said Fanny. 

“ Well, then, we must see to that. The fine weather is 
getting on,—what do you say to taking her to the country ? ” 

Fanny looked at Baptiste. “ More expenses upon you,” 
she said. 

“ Not heavy expenses,” he replied; “ besides, it will do 
you good, too, Fanny. You are getting pale.” 

“ And how shall I work in the country ? ” she asked. 

“ I can manage and keep you in work.” 

“ And how shall I see you ? ” exclaimed Fanny, bursting 
into tears. 

“ I shall go and see you often,” said Baptiste, very much 
moved. “ But you must not cry, Fanny, you must not. We 
have put *our shoulder to the plough, and we must not draw 
back. We have taken a heavy duty on ourselves. We have 


176 


SEVEN YEARS. 


given it already six years of our existence, six of our best 
years, we must not grudge what remains ; I will not hide from 
you, Fanny, that it went hard against me at first. I could 
not see why I must needs sacrifice so much, but now I do; 
and seeing it, 1 am, thank God, willing to do my duty.” 

“ Because you are better than I am,” humbly said Fanny. 

“ We will not talk about that,” replied Baptiste, “ but 
where is the use of hiding it, Fanny ? Whilst Madame la Boche 
lives, we cannot marry. We cannot ask a delicate lady, 
reared in luxury, to live in a room behind our shop, without 
killing her. Poverty she can and must endure, but not a 
change of all her habits and feelings. And we cannot marry 
and keep up this separate home—we are too poor, or rather we 
are not rich enough. Besides, the children ! ” added Bap¬ 
tiste, whose thoughts ever ran in the patriarchal line. “ No, 
no, Fanny,” he resumed stoutly, “ we keep free to do our duty, 
as you always said, and though marriage may be, nay, is de¬ 
lightful, it is not liberty.” 

There was too much sound sense in this for Fanny not to 
acquiesce in Baptiste’s decision. 

“ Let it be as you please,” she said, submissively. 

Several days had elapsed. The morning was bright, and 
Madame la Boche, as usual, seemed languid. Charles was at 
school. 

“ Baptiste says we must take a drive in the country,” said 
Fanny, rather abruptly. 

“ Dear me! ” exclaimed Madame la Boche, with a sigh, 
11 1 fear that will be very expensive.” 

“ Oh ! for once,” said Fanny, smiling. 

11 Well, you and he know best, surely.” 

11 The carriage is below waiting,” said Fanny. 

“ Dear me! then it was all settled,” said Madame la 
Boche, with a start. 

“ Yes, Madame, it was all settled,” gaily replied Fanny. 

Madame la Boche smiled good-humouredly. “1 am an old 
child,” she said, “ it is but right and fitting that like a child 
I should be treated.” 

Fanny helped her to get ready, then assisted her down 
stairs to the carriage, a plain one, but with two stout horses 
well fitted for a drive in the open country. Madame la Boche 
involuntarily smiled as she entered it, and as it drove away 
from the door her face beamed with pleasure. It was so long 
since she had enjoyed the pleasant motion, so long since pass?* 


SEVEN YEARS. 


ITT 


ing swiftly through crowded streets, she had leaned back in 
that dreamy indolence long habit had made dear. 

But when they had passed the barriers; when after strag¬ 
gling houses came fields, with the young green wheat waving 
freely beneath the summer wind ; when farm-houses, with farm¬ 
yards, where hens cackled and pigs grunted, appeared before 
them; when wind-mills, with outspread arms, rose in the dis¬ 
tance, and the dusty road passed through a homely yet pleas¬ 
ing landscape, Madame la Boche brightened beneath the 
watchful gaze of Fanny, and said with a happy sigh : 

“ Ah ! this is delightful! I almost wish Charles were with 
us; but I dare say I ought not : the child must study.” 

“ Still it would be pleasant to have him,” said Fanny. 
u What a pretty place this is, Madame.” 

“ Very pretty,” replied Madame la Boche; “ tell the man 
to stop, my dear.” 

A graceful little village, with bright white houses and 
green orchards, rose before them. A modest church, with its 
belfry and a large golden cross, overlooked with a motherly 
air the clustering dwellings below. A look of peace, comfort, 
and almost of prosperity, hung over the whole place. 

“ Baptiste said there was a house here where we could 
rest awhile and get some milk,” hesitatingly said Fanny, and 
without waiting for Madame la Boche’s reply to this dubious 
speech, she made a sign to the coachman, and they drove up 
the main street of the village. 

The carriage stopped before a plain white house, with green 
door and shutters, and fruit-trees nodding over the garden 
wall at the back. 

“ But this does not look like a place of public refresh¬ 
ment,” uneasily observed Madame la Boche. 

The words had scarcely fallen from her lips when the door 
opened. Baptiste appeared on the threshold, and Charles 
bounded out to meet them with shouts of glee. 

“ This is very kind,” slowly said Madame la Boche ; u but 
I fear Baptiste has put himself out sadly.” 

“ Not at all, Madame,” stoutly said Baptiste, assisting her 
to alight; 11 this is not my busy time in Paris, and I like to 
look at fields now and then.” 

They entered the house, met by the glimpse of a sunny 
courtyard and green garden. Baptiste showed them into two 
pleasant rooms on the ground-floor : a little sitting-room on 
the front, and a double-bedded room at the back, both fur* 

8* 


178 


SEVEN YE AES. 


nished with great simplicity, but with a certain taste never¬ 
theless, that could not escape Madame la Roche. 

“ Had you the doing of these rooms, Baptiste ? ” she asked, 
sitting down on a little chintz-covered sofa. 

“ This is your place, bonne maman,” hastily cried Charles, 
who could keep his peace no longer, “you and Fanny are 
going to live here.” 

Madame la Roche looked at Baptiste, who seemed very 
much embarrassed. 

“ The doctor ordered Madame country air,” he said hesi¬ 
tatingly, u and I found these rooms for a mere trifle; of course 
it cost me nothing to furnish them up, so I thought that if 
Madame and Fanny were here it would do them both good,— 
besides that, Monsieur Charles could come now and then for a 
holiday.” 

“ And there is such a garden ! ” cried Charles. 

u The air is said to be very good,” timidly put in Fanny, 
who began to fear that Madame la Roche was displeased. But 
displeasure was not the cause of her silence. She looked from 
one to the other with a sad wistful look, and sighing, she 
bowed her head, whilst two tears slowly trickled down her 
pale cheeks. 

“ Poor children,” she said, “ poor children, is that the end 
of all your little love plans,—to cater and care for a poor old 
woman like me ? ” 

11 Madame, it makes me happy, and it makes Baptiste 
happy, too,” simply said Fanny. 

“ That it does,” said Baptiste. 

But Madame la Roche shook her head. 

“ No, no,” she said, speaking from the fulness of her heart, 
“ no, no, it is not the aim of youth to think of a poor old 
woman. It is not right that everything should be given up 
for me. You would already have married Fanny but for me, 
Baptiste, and now must I rob you of the only pleasure you 
have left, looking at her ?—for I know you like to look at her. 
I have watched you often—I have seen you—you like to look 
at her.” 

Baptiste did not deny the soft impeachment. “ Yes, 
Madame,” he said, “ I like to look at Fanny, but I can look 
at her without seeing her; I know her face by heart. Besides, 
with Madame’s permission, I shall come out every Sunday, so 
that I shall not quite lose the sight of Mademoiselle Fanny’s 
face.” 

11 No, no,” said Madame la Roche, growing more and more 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


179 


troubled ; S£ no, no, that must not be. I cannot allow it. You 
must live by yourselves, and I must look on and do without 
you as much as I can. I may linger on many years, and do 
you mean to say, Baptiste, that you will not marry Fanny till 
I die ? ” 

Baptiste scratched his head and looked at Fanny, as he 
often did when his ready wit was at fault. Fanny laughed 
softly and put in ; 

££ Dear me, Madame, Baptiste is not at all in a hurry. He 
has so many things to mind and to do, that he does not feel 
time slipping away; and as I do not mean to marry till I am 
twenty-live at the least, he has taken a good dose of patience to 
last him for three years yet.” 

“ I do not believe her, Baptiste,” said Madame la Boche, 
“ therefore I am sure you need not mind her. We both know 
her of old.” 

u Bonne maman, why will you not stay here ? ” asked 
Charles, looking uneasy, “ it is a nice place.” 

“ Madame has not seen the garden yet,” suggested Bap¬ 
tiste, perceiving that Madame la Boche’s resolve was begin¬ 
ning to waver. She did not reply, but rose, and leaning on 
Fanny’s arm, she followed Charles, who eagerly showed the 
way. They crossed a square court, the child pushed open a 
trellis gate, and they entered an enclosure, half garden, half 
orchard, and which low walls, covered with vines and peach 
trees, divided from other gardens. A central and broad walk, 
covered with a treille—the treille is a gallery of trellis up and 
over which the vine creeps—extended cool and green to a little 
pond, from the centre of which rose a tiny jet of water clear 
and white ; bright flowers of every hue grew around it; green 
shrubs, that looked very like gooseberry bushes and currant 
trees, divided this garden from a little potager or kitchen-gar¬ 
den behind. 

“ It is no great place, as Madame sees,” said Baptiste, 
coming up to Madame la Boche; “ cabbages and strawberries 
are not ashamed to grow here : those are apple and cherry 
trees: it is a simple little place, owned by a decent widow, who 
has those two rooms to spare, and who will do anything for 
Madame, or let Fanny do it.” His eye appealingly sought the 
eyes of Madame la Boche. She sighed and answered : 

“ I never could say no; yet if ever I ought to say no it is 
now. But where is the use ? if you did not persuade me, 
Fanny would; let it be as you wish, Baptiste.” 

Baptiste, who looked thoroughly happy at his success, now 


180 


SEVEN YEAES. 


showed Madame la Roche over the rest of the garden. There 
was not much more to see, and at length they came to a 
wooden bench in an arbour, on which she sat down a while. 
Giving a look to Fanny and Charles, who were far behind,.. 
Baptiste said impressively : 

“ I should like to say a few words to Madame.” 

“ Speak, Baptiste.” 

“ I fear Madame overrates the little I am doing now; but- 
I should like Madame to understand that in my own mind I 
have not done, and do not do, half enough.” 

“ I have no claim on you, or any one,” sadly said Madame 
la Roche. 

“ Madame has reared Fanny, and Fanny is my wife,” re¬ 
plied Baptiste, with unusual energy. “ If I were to do ten 
times as much as I am doing, I should not do half enough.” 

“ Well, there is one comfort,” said 3Iadame la Roche, in 
a voice so low that Baptiste was not sure he had heard her 
rightly, “ it will not last very long.” And looking up in his 
face with a wistful smile, she added, cheerfully : “ Well, Bap¬ 
tiste, as you please, as you like.” 

Charles here came running towards them, breathless and 
beaming with joy. 

“Fanny says lunch is ready,” he cried eagerly 5 “come, 
pray come.” 

Madame la Roche rose, and taking the arm of Baptiste, 
she slowly left the arbour, Charles preceding them both at a 
full gallop, in the vain hope of quickening their leisurely pace. 

They found Fanny in the little sitting-room, standing by 
a round table, on which a snow-white cloth set off a plain but 
tempting meal of cold chicken, salad, fruit, and pleasant coun¬ 
try wine, not Medoc or clos vongeot certainly, but with the 
taste of the vine fruit on it, for all that. 

Madame la Roche, who seemed to have recovered all her 
cheerfulness, sat down; she put Fanny on her right, and Bap¬ 
tiste on her left; Charles sat between them, under the especial 
surveillance of Fanny, and exactly opposite his grandmother, 
who now and then looked at him, and from him to Baptiste, 
with a mild and meditative look. 

When the meal was over they all went to sit again in the 
garden. Madame la Roche took the arm of Baptiste, who led 
her to the arbour, and there, whilst he and Fanny stood, she 
said: 

“ It may be that I reared Fanny like my own child; but 
for you, Baptiste, I never did anything; yet you have been a 


SEVEN YEAKS. 


181 


son to me. My son I shall henceforth consider you, and when 
I am dead it will gratify me if Charles should take your name, 
and be your eldest son and the elder brother of your children. 
That is all I can do to show you, Baptiste, that I am grateful 
to you. It is not much, it is nothing; but God is said to bless 
the love of the aged, for He has put a special value on their 
good will, and I hope and trust that mine will not prove fruit¬ 
less to you and yours.” 

Baptiste looked both gratified and embarrassed by this 
speech. 

“ If Madame thinks me worthy of being her son,” he said, 
“ I will not refuse the honour. I am a tradesman indeed, a 
working-man, but an honest man could be son to a queen for 
all that. At the same time, Madame overrates what I have 
done. It really is very little. As to Monsieur Charles,” he 
added, laying his hand on the head of the boy, who looked up 
at him with settled gravity, “ I have loved him like my own 
child, ever since lie had scarlatina, and if he takes the name 
of Watt, he will take an honest name, though not a great one; 
but, with Madame’s permission, we will let him decide that 
matter as he grows up. I am not proud, but I should not like 
him to repent it.” 

Madame la Iloche smiled. Fanny passed her arm within 
Baptiste’s, and said with fond mockery : 

“ Bid Madame ever hear Baptiste make such a long speech 
before ? I never did, and I doubt if I ever shall again,” she 
added gravely, “ his eloquence is exhausted.” 

“ Bo not mind her, Baptiste,” said Madame la Iloche, 
“ she talks so because she likes you.” 

“ Mind her! ” echoed Baptiste, shaking with subdued 
laughter, u mind Fanny! Oh! Madame, I have long given that 
up. I should have lost my senses years ago if I minded her.” 

“ Very well, sir,” said Fanny, looking much piqued, “ you 
shall not have the trouble of minding me any more to-day.” 
She loosened her arm from his, and darted off, calling Charles, 
who readily followed. 

“ She will come back,” said Madame la Roche. 

u No,” said Baptiste, calmly, “ I do not think she will, 
but I cannot help it. Fanny would drive me wild if I did not 
put her down a little now and then. She sulks a while, then 
comes round of her own accord, and is pleasanter than ever.” 

From which speech Madame la Roche perceived that, slow 
and heavy as Baptiste was, he had acquired some practical 
knowledge of the best way to manage his warm-hearted, but 


182 


SEVEN YEARS. 


capricious mistress. Most stoical, indeed, was the firmness he 
displayed under her present displeasure. Fanny did not ap¬ 
pear for the rest of the day, and Baptiste did not look for her; 
she was even out of the way when it was time for him to go, 
and Baptiste merely said : 

“ 1 am sorry Fanny is not here, for me to hid her good 
night; ” hut he said it cheerfully, and went away without be¬ 
traying any signs of emotion. And yet Baptiste was thought¬ 
ful, perhaps he was even sad hy the time he reached the end 
of the village, and sat on a stone waiting for the public convey¬ 
ance that was to take him on to Paris. 

The evening was fine and bright; rosy clouds flushed the 
pale and lofty sky ; large and beautiful the stars came forth; 
the country round was quiet, and seemed to sink into repose; 
a balmy breath came from fields and orchards, but Baptiste 
saw and heeded nothing. “ That girl is tiresome,” he thought. 
“ She knows I am going; she knows it makes my heart ache 
to go without having a parting look from her, and yet she 
hides just to vex me. God forgive her, the mischievous little 
monkey.” 

He sighed, and started as a rose was thrown plump in his 
face. Baptiste looked up, and there, standing on a bank be¬ 
fore him, he beheld Fanny and Charles looking at him and 
laughing. His face lit up and his blue eyes sparkled with joy. 

“ Ah, Fanny,” he said, rising and advancing towards her, 
“ that is like a good little girl.” 

“ What is ? ” asked Fanny ; “ do you mean to say that I 
came here to see one who chose to leave without bidding me 
good evening ? I beg you will think no such a thing. I came 
because Madame wished me and Charles to take a walk in the 
fields, that is all.” 

But Baptiste knew better; he leaped up on the bank, and 
was by her side clasping her hand, and looking at her fondly. 

Fanny smiled, and sent off Charles to gather the wild 
flowers which grew in profusion everywhere around them. 

“ So you thought to go off so ? ” she said, when they were 
comparatively alone. “ Very proper behaviour, indeed—you 
will make a nice husband, sir.” 

But Fanny had, unconsciously, touched a dangerous chord. 
Baptiste seized both her hands. 

“ Fanny—Fanny ! ” he cried, “ how long is this to last ? 
Life is short, and youth is still shorter. I sometimes think I 
am mad to give you up as I do, day after day. What other joy 
or pleasure, but you, have I ever thought of? Never one, 


SEVEN TEARS. 


183 


Fanny, never one ! And we cannot, the wisest and the most so¬ 
ber of us, we cannot live without something. There are times, 
Fanny, when I feel it too much. When I want you so, that 
it drives me crazy. What was I thinking of when you threw 
that rose at me ? I was thinking, if my little Fanny were my 
wife, she would not dare to serve me so. She could not, which 
is better still. What wife would have the heart to let her 
husband go without a word, without a kiss ? And until that 
little torment is my wife, she will treat me thus—I thought all 
that, Fanny—and now I tell you, we must get married soon.” 

His hands trembled as they clasped hers; he spoke with a 
subdued vehemence that made Fanny’s heart sink, for passion 
in the calm is always terrible to behold. She felt conquered 
and weak, a mere woman in man’s power, without the strength 
to resist or protest. She looked up at the calm sky, wonder¬ 
ing why right was so hard a battle to win, and why what was 
easy was not ever right. 

u Baptiste,” she said, in a low sad voice, u I will do what 
you please, what you like.” 

The calm submissive tone, the acquiescent words, dispelled 
at once Baptiste’s outbreak of passion. He relaxed his hold 
of Fanny’s hands, his head fell, and by the time Charles came 
bounding back to them with his hands full of flowers, and his 
face flushed with pleasure, Baptiste was almost calm. 

“ Poor little F’anny,” he said, “ I tease and trouble you for 
nothing, and you have twice as much sense as I have, but you 
see a word at the wrong time will upset the wisest, of which I 
am not, Heaven knows. Well, these are fine flowers—and that 
is the coach coming, so good night, and good bye.” 

And not trusting himself with a word or a look, Baptiste 
left them abruptly, and jumping down the bank, entered at 
once the carriage, which was rattling past, and rolled down 
the stony road without stopping. 

Fanny stood and looked like one dreaming. The moon 
was rising, when, taking the child’s hand, she slowly went back 
through quiet fields to the little house where Madame la Roche 
sat waiting. 

“ Well, my dear, it is all made up,” she said, cheerfully. 

“ Oh yes, Madame, all made up,” echoed Fanny, trying to 
look gay; but Madame la Roche detected the efiort, the sad 
look, the wan cheek, the listless smile. She took the young 
girl’s hands and pressed them kindly: 

“ You will soon be Baptiste’s wife,” she said, “ I am sure 
you will.” 


184 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ We are not in a hurry,” replied Farmy, smiling. 

u No, my dear, but you will soon be his wife for all that.” 

Fanny got nervous. 

“ Oh ! pray Madame,” she exclaimed, “ have no presenti¬ 
ments, pray do not.” 

u I cannot help it,” said Madame la Roche ; lt there always 
have been presentiments in our family, and I think it was by 
living with me and in the old house so long, that Marie and 
Charlotte took theirs. I assure you, child, such things are 
contagious. But I see it makes you fret. We will say no 
more about it.” 

Fanny went to rest with a troubled heart. What if 
Madame la Roche were going to die too ! What if her free¬ 
dom were to- spring from that gentle grave! The thought 
sickened her. She prayed ardently, fervently for anything— 
anything but that sad liberty. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

The presentiment of Madame la Roche took time for its 
fulfilment. That summer passed, and still she lived, and not 
merely did she live, but her health improved with country air. 
Sometimes she said: 

“ I really feel as if I were getting strong. It is very 
strange, for I know my time is running short, of course it is; 
and yet I certainly feel stronger than when I came here.” 

“ And is not that what Baptiste wanted ? ” Fanny would 
answer gaily ; “ is it not for that we are here ? ” 

“ Well, you certainly look better,” meditatively replied 
Madame la Roche, “ you look rosier, you are plumper. Has 
Baptiste noticed it ? ” 

Fanny did not know, but thought that Charles, too, was 
improved; to which Madame la Roche assented. The boy 
was with them; the village boasted a tolerably good day- 
school, of which he was a pupil, and where, according to the 
master’s report, he made very fair progress. He spent his Sun¬ 
days and holidays at home with his grandmother, Fanny, and 
Baptiste, who, no matter what the weather might be, never failed 
to come. Perhaps without those weekly visits neither he nor 
Fanny could have borne this long separation. As it was, they 
endured it very well, until, with autumn and the first chill 
blasts, came reunion. 

On a cool though clear October morning Madame la Roche, 


SEVEN YEARS. 


185 


Fanny, and the child returned to Paris. The face of Madame 
la Boche saddened as she entered the crowded streets; poor 
Fanny, to whom winter brought the daily society of Baptiste, 
was glad, and could not prevent joy from beaming in her face. 
Charles, like all children, was delighted with the change. As 
they entered the house Madame la Boche sighed: it was 
darker and more dismal than she had thought it. 

“ How black the yard looks,” she whispered, as, leaning 
on Fanny’s arm, she painfully ascended the four floors that led 
to their apartment, “ and how unpleasantly Monsieur Fecard 
growled as he gave you that letter : I am afraid, I really am, 
that he is a bad-tempered man—and not very clean.” 

“ He is kinder than he looks,” said Fanny, “ and do you 
know, Madame, I like this old house : it feels friendly.” 

“ Hoes it ? ” sadly answered Madame la Boche. 

They had reached the door; it opened before they had 
time to ring, and Baptiste stood smiling on the threshold, 
ready to bid them welcome. 

“ That is why Fanny feels the house friendly,” said 
Madame la Boche, smiling. “ Well, so do I, too, with such a 
friend.” 

But do what she would she looked melancholy, her eyes 
grew dim as she entered the silent rooms that spoke too elo¬ 
quently of her old servants. 

“ Poor Charlotte, poor Marie! ” exclaimed Madame la 
Boche, “ it seems unnatural to have survived them so long. 
But I shall soon go ; I feel it, child, I feel it.” 

Fanny did not now think quite so much as at first of Madame 
la Boche’s presentiments, and without answering remarks that 
seemed to require no answer, she handed Madame la Boche 
the letter which she had received from Monsieur Fecard. 

“It came last night,” said Fanny, “but Monsieur Fecard 
knew we were to be here this morning, so he did not for¬ 
ward it.” 

“ A letter ! ” musingly said Madame la Boche, holding it 
in her hand. “ Why, no one ever writes to me now. What 
can it be about, and from whom ? All my old friends have 
forsaken me—they really have.” 

“ Perhaps it is from Monsieur Noiret,” hesitatingly sug¬ 
gested Fanny. 

“ Oh no, child, it is not. Monsieur Noiret is too much a 
man of the world to care any more about me—no—no.” 

She broke the seal as she spoke. Something strange there 
was in that letter, for Madame la Boche read it three times 


186 


SEVEN YEARS. 


over, before she believed in its contents. “ Fanny,” she said 
at length, “ your presentiment did not deceive you—Monsieur 
Noiret is dead ! ” And she sank down in a chair and burst 
into tears. 

Fanny did not weep, but she was shocked. She remem¬ 
bered kindnesses, which, though not disinterested, were yet 
kindnesses; perhaps too she remembered Monsieur Noiret’s 
love for her, and wondered what she would have felt had she 
married him and been left a widow. 

11 You would have been a rich woman,” said Baptiste, who 
stood close by, who had heard all, and was watching her, and 
thus seemed to answer her secret thoughts. Fanny looked up 
and smiled sadly. 

“ A rich woman,” she said, in a low tone, “ but at what 
price, Baptiste? It would have been a hard struggle to have 
loved that old man, and it would have been shameful not to 
love him. Thank God, apart from losing you, thank God. I 
say that I was saved from this.” 

“ This is a hard case! ” ejaculated Madame la Boche, clasp¬ 
ing her hands; 11 a very hard case; I wish I knew what I feel 
exactly. It seems to me I am sorry, truly sorry, for Mon¬ 
sieur Noiret’s death. And yet I cannot help being glad, not 
at his death,—no, I am sure it is not at that, but at those five 
hundred francs a year he has left me ! ” 

11 Five hundred francs a year ! ” echoed Fanny. 

“ Yes, dear. So his lawyer says, and he would not deceive 
me. But I repeat it, I am truly sorry he is dead. Monsieur 
Noiret, my old friend, who long did his best to serve me, and 
who, it aj>pears, had not entirely forgotten me, as I thought; 
but we are very prone to judge and think evil—-we are.” 

Monsieur Noiret had, indeed, bequeathed five hundred 
francs a year to Madame la Boche, only for her lifetime, it is 
true, but still the bequest, prompted by compassionate regret 
for the past, was unexpected. Her first perplexed feeling of 
not knowing whether she was glad or sorry over, Madame la 
Boche was quietly pleased at this little piece of good fortune. 

“ I am glad, I really am,” she said, with a sparkle in her 
blue eye; “ t know that Baptiste need not now spend all his 
money on me, and, Baptiste, will you do me a favour ? will you 
make me happy ? ” 

“ And marry Fanny,” said Baptiste, smiling. 

“Just so : but how did you know I meant that ? ” 

“ I saw it in Madame’s eyes.” 

“ Yes, marry Fanny. I am now quite a rich woman. I 


SEVEN YEARS. 187 

have nine hundred francs a year. Let me have the happiness 
of seeing Fanny your wife before I die.” 

Baptiste looked at Fanny, whose lips uttered no denial. 

“ Very well,” said Baptiste, emphatically, “ this day month, 
Madame.” 

u Let me see, is to-day Friday ? ” anxiously interrupted 
Madame la Ptoche. u You know how unlucky it was of you, 
Baptiste, to fix on a Friday seven years ago.” 

u To-day is Thursday,” said Baptiste. 

11 Thursday will do,” replied Madame la Boche, 11 and you 
can see Fanny as often as you please. Neither Charlotte nor 
Marie are here to interfere.” 

Silent tears accompanied the last words, but Baptiste was 
in too great a fever at this unexpected decision, and Fanny was 
too much troubled at this sudden change in all her plans, for 
she had made up her mind not to marry till she was grey, to 
soothe the sad recollections Madame la Boche cherished. 

“ Mind, Fanny,” said Baptiste, as they parted, “ it must be 
in a month this time; you may stay with Madame la Boche 
whilst she lives, but I cannot have another disappointment. I 
cannot.” 

“ There will be none,” said Fanny, positively; “ Madame 
la Boche says I have acquired the faculty of presentiment from 
living with her, and take my word for it, there will be none.” 

“ God hear you, Fanny.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

There was no disappointment. On a mild November day 
Fanny and Baptiste were married quietly and happily. 

No crowd of guests escorted them to the altar, no rejoicing 
friends sat down with them at that day’s dinner, but Charles 
was merry, Fanny looked happy, and Baptiste looked happier, 
and happiest of all looked Madame la Boche. 

“ I wish I could tell you both how glad I am,” she said, 
simply, “ and I really think that if he saw you now so good, 
so pleased, Monsieur Noiret too would be glad to have brought 
about, or helped to bring about, this your happy wedding day, 
for I know I should never have been able to persuade you to 
marry without that little legacy of his.” 

Baptiste looked puzzled, and Fanny smiled mischievously. 

“ I am not sure there is so much cause for congratulation,” 


188 


SEVEN YEAES. 


she said; “ did Madame overhear the man at the Mairie this 
morning ? ” 

u Do yon mean the mayor, who made you make that dread¬ 
ful promise to obey Baptiste ? ” asked Madame la Boche, for 
why woman should obey man, she could not imagine! 

“ Oh ! no, not the mayor,” said Fanny, “ but a man who 
said to another : ‘ I remember her : she was a pretty girl seven 
years ago.’ ” 

“ He knew nothing about it,” roundly said Baptiste. 
u You were not pretty seven years ago : you were sallow and 
thin; but you became pretty as time went on; did she not, 
Madame ? ” 

u I always thought Fanny good looking,” said Madame la 
Boche, with mild gravity. 

“ At all events, the man said I was pretty seven years ago, 
which means plainly I am not now. So you see, my poor 
Baptiste, you have got an ugly old wife.” 

“ He was a fool,” stoutly said Baptiste, “ and you—you— 
I had almost said you are not much wiser; but that would not 
be civil, nor yet would it be my meaning. Glance in that 
looking-glass, or rather ask Madame if you are old and ugly. 
Bah ! you are prettier than ever.” 

11 1 really think she is,” said Madame la Boche, il I really 
do.” 

“ I hope, at least, I am wiser than I was seven years ago,” 
demurely said Fanny, “ that I will make Baptiste a better 
wife than I might have made him then.” 

“ Not a bit,—not a bit,” said Baptiste, nettled, “ you are 
the same flighty creature you were, and you will plague my 
life out—I know you will. But I may blame myself. I 
like you as you are, and foolish, flighty, gidd} T bird as you are, 
I am glad to have you.” 

“ They must want to be alone,” thought Madame la Boche, 
“ it is natural, on their wedding day,—they must have many 
new thoughts and feelings to impart to each other. I am 
afraid I cannot go out and leave them ; but why should they 
not go out and leave me ? ” 

She accordingly proposed that Baptiste should take Fanny 
out, but neither Baptiste nor his bride appeared to have the 
new thoughts and feelings Madame la Boche had apprehended. 

“ They knew each other by heart,” Fanny said, u and had 
nothing to learn from solitude.” 

“ But you might like being alone,” persisted Madame la 
Boche. “ It seems natural, though, to be sure, I cannot re- 


SEVEN YE AES. 189 

member I had anything very particular to say to Monsieur la 
Roche the day we were married.” 

“ Madame,” said Baptiste, simply and gravely, “ we have 
married, and been glad to marry, but it was not to run away 
from you, or feel you in the way of our new happiness,—God 
forbid. Whilst you live, Fanny shall stay with you like a 
good daughter, and may you live long ! I am quite happy to 
have her so.” 

Madame la Roche shed a quiet tear, but did not remon¬ 
strate, whilst Charles, whose lengthened face betrayed his ap¬ 
prehensions that Baptiste was going to take Fanny away 
altogether, brightened considerably on hearing she was to stay. 

This was their wedding day, and their wedding life. 

The winter passed in peace, happiness, and comfort 
Baptiste managed so that Madame la Roche’s accession of in¬ 
come went to pay Charles’s superior schooling. Baptiste con¬ 
fessed he was ambitious for the child. “ If he is to take the 
name of Watt,” he said, “ I wish him to be an honour to it: 
and if he is not, I wish to do for him at least what his grand¬ 
mother did for Fanny my wife.” 

As usual, Madame la Roche remonstrated, then yielded. 
She yielded likewise when, warmth and summer having re¬ 
turned, Baptiste insisted that she, Fanny, and Charles should 
go once more to that pretty little home in the country which 
lie had made for them the year before. 

“ It will be the last summer that I shall trouble Baptiste 
so,” she said to Fanny; “next year I shall be with Charlotte 
and Marie, and you will be with your husband.” 

“ Madame,—Madame,—I do not believe in your pre¬ 
sentiments,” gaily said Fanny. 

“My dear,” said Madame la Roche, with mild surprise, 
“ have you forgotten that you, too, have acquired the faculty 
by living with me! Have you forgotten your remarkable 
presentiment about Monsieur Noiret’s death % ” 

Fanny did not venture to contradict this inference. She 
had done so once before, and Madame la Roche had remained 
rather sore at the imputation on her accuracy and memory. 

We need not write the story of that summer, it had none. 
We need but relate what happened on a Sunday evening in 
early September. 

It was a beautiful evening and mild. 

“ I think I should like to sit out,” said Madame la Roche. 

Baptiste led her out into the little garden, and helped her 
to recline in the deep arm-chair, which her increasing weak- 




190 


SEVEN YEAES. 


ness required even there. He placed her within view of the 
calm blue and yellow sky, and of the low circle of hills that 
met it. The flowers were breathing forth all their fragrance ; 
the air came perfumed from the surrounding gardens, yet Mad¬ 
ame la Roche looked around her with mild apathy. Too 
languid to take pleasure in what she saw, she enjoyed it 
dreamily. 

“ This is almost as beautiful as Flanders,” thoughtfully 
said Baptiste. 

“ Almost! ” echoed Fanny. 

“ Yes, almost, Madame Watt, for, let me tell you, there is 
no place like Flanders, whatever you may think.” 

“ Is not Flanders flat ? ” asked Madame la Roche. 

“Very flat, Madame, and that is why it is so beautiful! ” 

“ Indeed ! ” she mildly rejoined. 

Fanny had gathered a few flowers. She now put them on 
Madame la Roche’s lap, who smiled at her, but scarcely looked 
at them. 

“ Here is your favourite flower, the rose,” said Fanny. 

“ Thank you ; all flowers are beautiful, but I have no 
favourites now ; the world is fading away from before me, and 
I am leaving it a little more every day, and all its beauty, too, 
Fanny.” 

“ Do you feel unwell ? ” uneasily asked Fanny. 

“No, child, I feel very well. Will you go and fetch me my 
handkerchief, if you please ? ” 

Fanny went; as soon as her back was turned, Madame la 
Roche laid her hand on Baptiste’s arm, and looking up at 
him, she said : 

“Baptiste, you have been a son to me, and a mother’s 
blessing be upon you. Your trial will soon be over. I am 
going away ; do not look so uneasy, it is a great blessing to 
you and to me. My life has been a long useless life ; but it 
might be longer than it is. I might live on and be a per¬ 
petual bar between Fanny and you, for she will not leave me, 
and I am too old and too troublesome to be with you. I am 
thankful, therefore, to go and let you be together, and I say 
all this I scarcely know why; perhaps because it relieves me 
—perhaps because I fear I might, if I waited too long, not 
say it at all.” 

Before Baptiste had time to reply, Fanny came up with 
the handkerchief. She read at once the disturbed meaning of 
her husband’s face, and said quickly : 

“ Is Madame unwell ? ” 


SEVEN YEARS. 


101 

“ No, child; but I was telling Baptiste what a long useless 
life mine Las been, and I say so to you as well as to him. 
Thank God, child, that when you are my age you can look 
back on your youth, and find more there than old Madame 
la Roche in hers.” 

“ Ah, Madame! ” said Fanny, looking pained, “ you 
grieve us by speaking so. Why will you hold yourself such a 
sinner? ” 

“ A lamb ! ” said Baptiste, 11 a meek, innocent lamb.” 

Madame la Rocho looked at the sinking sun, and the plain 
that spread a field of gold to the base of bluish hills. 

“ I dare say it is all beautiful,” she said, after a long gaze; 
“ but I do not seem to see it; I only see days spent with 
hands folded on my lap, and idleness in my heart and brain.” 

She said no more : when the sun had set, and the last red 
glow had departed from the sky, Madame la Roche rose and 
reentered the house. She grew more feeble from that day, and 
when autumn opened she died. Gentle and unrepining, she de¬ 
parted from life with a smile on her lips; with none but good 
and holy thoughts in her heart. Almost her last words were 
a blessing to Fanny and Baptiste, a prayer to Charles to obey 
his adopted parents. 

She died in the quiet village where Baptiste’s filial care 
had given her such happy days ; but though the village churcli- 
3 T ard was a beautiful and shady place, Baptiste would not let 
her sleep there. 

“ No, no,” he said, “ expense and trouble are nothing— 
Madame la Roche shall be with her two faithful old servants 
at her feet, like a lady : besides, they were with her in life, 
why should they be divided from her in death ? ” 

As Baptiste said, so was it done. When he returned from 
the funeral with poor little Charles, whose eyes were red with 
weeping, and whose heart was very heavy with grief, he took 
him to his upholsterer’s shop, where Fanny, now for the first 
time in her husband’s home, was waiting for them. 

“ Monsieur Charles,” he said to him, “ this is the place we 
live in ; in many respects it would not be suited to you, and 
therefore I have resolved to put you in a boarding-school, 
where you will be properly educated. You can come and see 
us every Sunday, and if you will hold me as your father, and 
Fanny as your mother, you will make us happy.” 

“ I will, I will,” cried Charles, sobbing. “ I will be called 
Watt.” 

“ Later, not now,” inflexibly said Baptiste, “ you must re- 


192 


SEVEN TEARS. 


pent nothing; but 1 may say it without boasting, Watt is an 
honest name no one need be ashamed of. Well, Charles, I 
have not much more to say: in that pretty little garden oppo¬ 
site I saw Fanny for the first time, some years ago. Your 
kind and good grandmother owned that house, and was a rich 
lady, but never think of the money that is gone, my boy; re¬ 
member her in your prayers, but never think of the money, 
though it is a useful and a very excellent thing. Think of 
the work you have to do, and do it bravely, and trust me for 
that, money will come too.” 

“1 do not want money,—I do not care about it,” despond¬ 
ently said Charles. 

Baptiste was going to argue him out of this dangerous ro¬ 
mance, but Fanny laid her fingers on her husband’s lips, and 
silenced him. 

“ It will all come to him,” she whispered. 

“ Perhaps it will, and perhaps it will not,” doubtfully said 
Baptiste ; “ at his age I knew what money was and its value ; 
but have your way, both of you.” 

The next day Charles, though not without many tears, 
went to school. W T hen Baptiste came home he found Fanny 
with rather a sad face, but very busy in the back room. He 
went up to her, and laying his hand on her shoulder, he said 
fondly: 

“ Well, my little Fanny, you are beginning housekeeping. 
God speed you; but you know what I told you last night. 
The funeral and Charles’s schooling have taken away all our 
money. We must pinch and spare, as if we were ever so 
young a couple, and just beginning business.” 

“ Very well,” said Fanny, cheerfully, “ we will do it, and 
be happier than if we had cared for ourselves alone, and had 
never had to do it.” 

Baptiste looked down at his wife, and smiled—a smile in 
which there was no regret for the past, but much of calm hap¬ 
piness in the present. 

Dear have they bought that happiness, and paid the full 
price; may it stay with them long, a faithful and abiding 
guest! 


SEVEN YEARS. 


193 


THE CHEAP EXCUKSION. 

Cheapness ! What wonderfully clever things are done and 
thought of in thy name—what mighty sums saved—what plea¬ 
sures realised ! We shall not, however, celebrate thy praises 
in an essay. The philosophy of cheapness may be best detailed 
in a story—the story of a terribly saving couple whom we 
lately heard of in Paris. 

The morning of the fete of St. Cloud shone bright and 
beautiful, and Monsieur Krukaine, who had set himself on en¬ 
joying a holiday, was anxious to be off. “ I think, my dear, 
it is time to start,” said he to his wife; “ as we mean to walk, 
it will be wise for us to go before the heat comes on.” 

t( Well, Monsieur Krukaine,” screamed a shrill voice from 
an inner room, “ you may be off if you like ; but Alexander’s 
face is not washed, and my things are not on yet, and I shan’t 
hurry either.” 

M. Krukaine looked at, his watch and groaned; but he 
knew by experience that to endeavour to hasten Madame Kru- 
kaine’s preparations would only occasion further delay: so after 
ascertaining once more that it was really a fine day, he glanced 
over the newspaper with as much composure as he could preserve. 

This was a great day in the life of the Krukaines, who had 
long looked forward to it with keen anticipations of the pleasure 
it was to afford them. St. Cloud is a pretty village on the 
banks of the Seine, at a short distance from Paris. It pos¬ 
sesses a palace and very handsome gardens, which on the fete 
day of the patron saint of the place are thronged with visitors, 
and offer a very gay appearance. The Krukaines were retired 
grocers in comfortable circumstances ; their elder children were 
settled in the world, but the youngest, Alexander Krukaine, a 
boy about nine years of age, still remained with his parents, 
who resided in the Eue de l’Arbresec, near the Place Dauphine. 
As the heavy cares of life were over for them, M. and Madame 
Krukaine might have been considered very happy people, but 
for the unlucky parsimony of their habits. Nothing, literally, 
seemed so difficult to M. Krukaine, as to spend a few francs 
for any purpose not strictly indispensable. To save money 
was his first consideration in everything; and his contriv- 

9 


194 


SEVEIT TEARS. 


ances to get cheap bargains, and conduct matters on all oc¬ 
casions cheaply, were most exemplary. Unfortunately, his 
cheap often turned out dear purchases, when all the cost was 
counted; hut better luck was hoped for next time; and failure 
accordingly only led to new experiments. Madame had not 
originally been a votary of cheapness; but from living in an 
atmosphere of economical devices, she at length rivalled her 
husband in saving, and after that it would have been difficult 
to say who was the cleverest in scenting out a bargain, or in 
contriving means for holding in money. In carrying out their 
projects, they stoically deprived themselves of the most innocent 
pleasures, lest they should cause any expense. They declared 
that their means would not allow them to see company. As 
every one knew this to be false, the Krukaines were soon called 
selfish, avaricious people; but to this they remained perfectly 
indifferent; M. Krukaine, who piqued himself on being a phi¬ 
losopher, remarking that as calumny was the usual reward of 
merit, they had no right to be surprised at the treatment they 
experienced from their neighbours. If the truth must be told, 
they were rather glad, than otherwise, at the turn which re¬ 
ports took against them. They had the pleasure of thinking 
they were unjustly persecuted, and this pleasure they had the 
satisfaction of enjoying without cost: it was a cheap way of 
getting amusement. 

Such being their disposition, it was not without mature 
deliberation that the Krukaines had decided on going to the 
fete of St. Cloud; but the beauty of the weather rendered the 
temptation irresistible ; besides they determined to spend so 
very little, that it would be scarcely worth mentioning. A 
circumstance, which increased their wish of seeing the fete was, 
that several lodgers of the house in which they resided had 
resolved to go to it in a party, and spoke enthusiastically of 
the pleasures they anticipated from the excursion. The Kru¬ 
kaines had been invited to join them, but had churlishly re¬ 
fused; for as M. Krukaine prudently observed, “What was the 
use of going with other people when you could gain nothing 
by them ? ” They accordingly determined to go alone. Mad¬ 
ame Brenu, a sarcastic widow, who lived on the same land¬ 
ing with them, and who was to be one of the pic-nic party, did 
indeed make some malicious and spiteful remarks about stingy 
and unsociable people; but as Madame Krukaine loftily ob¬ 
served, in emulation of her husband’s philosophy, “ She was 
above such things, and should treat the woman’s impertinence 
with the calm contempt it merited.” 


SEVEN YEAKS. 


195 


Though M. Krukaine, after waiting a very long time, 
ended by thinking Madame would never be dressed, she was 
ready at last, and appeared in the full glory of a bright yellow 
bonnet and brick-red shawl; which, though somewhat out of 
date, were still as good as new. On her left arm she carried a 
large and heavy basket, well stored with provisions for the day; 
and in her right hand she brandished an old blue parasol, with 
which she rather viciously poked Alexander Krukaine, a dull 
sleepy-looking boy, who bore the infliction, and the “ go on ” 
that accompanied it, with an irritating, don’t care, dogged sort 
of look. 

“Well, Monsieur Krukaine, do you mean to stay here all 
day ? ” asked Madame, turning on her husband. 

“ Certainly not,” replied Monsieur Krukaine, whistling 
and walking down-stairs, whilst Alexander obeyed another 
poke, and another “go on,” and followed his father. 

The said father needs no particular description. He was a 
thick common-place looking man, possessed of a tolerable share 
of good nature; but long habit had enabled him to lay this 
superfluous quality under such remarkable control, that few 
persons could have suspected its existence. A thoroughly good- 
humoured temper alone betrayed to the penetrating eye of keen 
observers the genial light which Monsieur Krukaine so care¬ 
fully hid beneath the bushel of worldly prudence. 

Softly and tenderly did Madame Krukaine close the door 
of her apartment; slyly and triumphantly did she slip the 
key in her pocket, and why, forsooth! oh, weakness of great 
minds ! lest Widow Brenu should hear her! We cannot deny 
it; Madame Krukaine, who was afraid of no one, dreaded with 
mortal fear the piercing eye, the ready ear, the pitiless tongue 
of Widow Brenu; and fate had, with perverse ingenuity, 
brought this enemy to the very threshold of the Krukaines, by 
lodging her in the same house, and on the same second-floor 
landing. “ This time she did not hear me,” thought Madame 
Krukaine, exultingly. Her foot was on the first step of the 
staircase, in the act of going down, when Monsieur Krukaine, 
who felt in a most unphilosophical hurry to be off, shouted from 
the foot of the staircase: 

“Madame Krukaine, are you coming or not!” 

Madame Brenu was in the act of soaping her merry round 
face, when she heard Monsieur Krukaine’s voice. At once she 
flew to the door, opened it, and beaming with mischievous 
glee, she confronted Madame Krukaine, who eyed her coldly 
and sternly. 


196 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ Good morning,” said Madame Brenu. 

“ Good morning,”’ loftily replied Madame Krukaine; “ I 
hope you are quite well ? ” 

“ Oh, quite; dressing to go to St. Cloud. Are you really 
going too? ” 

“We are.” 

“ You will find it expensive,” said Madame Brenu, shrewd¬ 
ly, “ dreadfully expensive.” 

“ That is our own business,” frigidly said Madame Krukaine, 
and she was going down stairs, when Madame Brenu, who was 
a dreadful woman, precisely because she always did what she 
pleased, laid her fat hand on the basket and unceremoniously 
lifted up the lid. The leg of a fowl caught her quick eye. 
“ Capon ! ” she cried, amazed, “ cold capon! Madame Kru¬ 
kaine, how did you make up your heart % ” 

“Madame Krukaine, are you coming?” again shouted 
Monsieur Krukaine from below. 

“ Yes, Monsieur Krukaine, I am coming,” replied Madame, 
in great wrath, and bending over the banisters to reply, “ and 
you will very much oblige me by coming and fetching your 
basket. I need not tell you that it is not for my own consump¬ 
tion I provided its contents, and if you will eat, I think you 
may work.” 

Monsieur Krukaine was at first confounded at this extraor¬ 
dinary address, but he soon came to the right conclusion. 
“ Madame Brenu has been at her,” he thought, and he went up. 

He found the two ladies engaged in keen though polite 
battle. 

“ I am very much obliged to you, Madame,” said Madame 
Krukaine, drawing her thin lips tight, “ I am very much 
obliged to you.” 

“Bo not mention it,” good-humouredly replied Madame 
Brenu, “ I hope you may enjoy yourselves. We shall. Mon¬ 
sieur Theodore, the lawyer’s clerk, brings his flute, and Mon¬ 
sieur Ledru his guitar, then we each take something to eat with 
us. I have a fine melon and—but dear me, Monsieur Krukaine, 
how did you make up your mind to buy a capon %—A pate, 
too! I assure you no one will believe it.” 

Monsieur Krukaine winked his right eye at Madame Brenu, 
and smacking his lips emphatically, replied : 

“ Madame, we shall believe it when the time comes.” 

Madame Brenu looked but half convinced, and did not 
seem able to make up her mind to believe in the capon, but, 


SEVEN YEAKS. 


197 


dropping that part of the subject, she gave her neighbour a 
rueful look, and pursued: 

“ And you will actually carry that heavy basket all the 
way to St. Cloud! well Monsieur Krukaine I admire you. We 
have hired a char-a-banc to take us there and back, but Mad¬ 
ame Krukaine w T ould not go in a char-a-banc ; too proud, 
eh?” 

Madame Krukaine would have returned a wrathful reply, 
but her husband, who did not care a rush for Madame Brenu’s 
talk (all wind, he wisely observed), only winked his right eye 
the harder, and tapping his nose, said shrewdly: 

“ There’s a bottle of Bordeaux with the capon, Madame 
Brenu, a bottle of Bordeaux.” 

And with this they descended. 

“ That was cutting, eh 1 ” said Monsieur Krukaine to his 
wife. 

“Very cutting, indeed,” ironically replied Madame Kru¬ 
kaine, as the voice of Madame Brenu was heard proclaiming to 
the whole house : “ Do vou know the news ? The Krukaines 
are going to St. Cloud, and they are taking a cold capon, and 
a bottle of Bordeaux. I saw the leg of the fowl, but I do not 
believe in it.” 

“ All wind, all talk,” philosophically said Monsieur Kru¬ 
kaine, and to show his contempt for it, he began whistling. 

The day was fine, but it was warm too. Monsieur Kru¬ 
kaine, who carried the basket, was soon in a profuse heat. 
He had not walked ten minutes when he paused, and observed 
gravely: 

“ My dear, I think we shall be very much fatigued by the 
time we reach St. Cloud. Had we not better ride there % ” 

“ Ride, indeed ! ” echoed Madame, with some asperity, 
“ and how % ” * 

“ Perhaps this countryman, who seems to be going our 
way, might give us a lift,” shrewdly replied Monsieur Kru¬ 
kaine, winking at a large cart, covered with white canvas, and 
drawn by a stout white horse, standing at the corner of a 
street, and which evidently belonged to a queer-looking brown- 
visaged countryman in a blue smock frock, who stood smok¬ 
ing his pipe at the door of a wine-shop. 

“ I do not much like the look of that cart,” said Madame 
Krukaine. 

“ Never mind the look, my dear,” eagerly replied her hus¬ 
band ; “ countrymen are soft; and think of the pleasure of 
riding for next to nothing ! ” 


198 


SEVEN YEAES. 


He went up to the soft countryman, and made the pro¬ 
posal ; it was favourably received, and in the short space of 
half an hour the bargain was struck. For a very small sum, 
which by dint of haggling Madame Krukaine reduced to a 
very trifling one, the countryman agreed to take them to St. 
Cloud. The whole family accordingly got up, Monsieur and 
Madame Krukaine exchanging looks of congratulation on their 
excellent bargain. 

But there is a sh^idy side to everything in this world, and 
it so happened that the cart, which was well laden with sacks 
of corn, went rather more slowly than the Krukaines could 
have walked. 

“ We shall never get there,” said Madame. 

“ My dear friend,” soothingly observed Monsieur Kru¬ 
kaine to the countryman, “ you have a good strong whip ; 
could you not urge your horse a little ? ” 

The countryman took out his pipe, and stared in profound 
amazement at Monsieur Krukaine. 

“ That horse has never been whipped in his life,” he said 
at length, “ and my opinion is that if I were to touch him he 
would stand stock still. But if you want him to go faster it 
is easily done.” 

The countryman made a peculiar noise with his tongue, 
and away flew the white horse at a gallop. The cart was not 
on springs, and the road was stony ; within five minutes 
Madame Krukaine was reduced to the verge of apoplexy. 
Monsieur Krukaine shouted in the countryman’s ear, and shook 
and pulled him, but the countryman only shrugged his shoul¬ 
ders, as much as to say : “ What can 1 do ? ” Upon which 
Monsieur Krukaine, being reduced to actual desperation, and 
suddenly remembering the effect the whip was to produce, 
seized it, and plied it vigorously around the horse’s legs ; but 
strange to say, the white horse, on being whipped for the first 
time in his life, instead of standing stock still, whisked his tail, 
kicked up his heels, and galloped all the faster, never stopping 
indeed, until he felt tired, and the Krukaines were fairly black 
in the face. 

“ I think we shall get down,” said Monsieur Krukaine, as 
soon as he had breath enough to speak. 

Madame, who was wholly exhausted, assented faintly, but 
though the countryman raised no sort of objection to their 
alighting, he did raise so very great an objection to their going 
away without paying him the amount agreed on, that the 
Krukaines, unable to find it in their hearts to pay for a ride 


SEVEN YEARS. 


199 


and go on foot, sulkily adhered to the original plan and 
bargain. 

“ But I beg, sir,” said Madame Krukaine, with great as¬ 
perity, as she resumed her seat, “ I beg, sir, that you will 
leave ofF that horrid smoking.” 

“ I should be most happy to oblige a Parisian lady,” said 
the soft countryman, gravely, “ but if I do not smoke my 
horse will not go, and when I do not want him to go, and yet 
wish to smoke, I must get down. And that is how and why 
you found me at the door of the wine-shop this morning.” 

This outrageous story was received by the Krukaines with 
ill-disguised scorn ; but they prudently remembered that they 
were in the countryman’s cart, and ventured on no open sign 
of incredulity. Slowly and lazily they crept at true snail’s 
pace along the hot sunny road, when a sound of light spring¬ 
ing wheels, with which blended the murmur of a flute and the 
tinkling of a guitar, was heard behind. Monsieur and Madame 
Krukaine exchanged conscious looks, and Madame drew back, 
but her yellow bonnet was too conspicuous, and rapidly as 
the char-a-banc flew past, Widow Brenu saw and recognised 
them. Witli a loud and sarcastic laugh she rose from her 
seat, and with out-stretched finger she pointed them out to the 
whole party, who raised an ironical cheer, as the light vehicle 
passed by, bequeathing a thick cloud of dust to the slow jolt¬ 
ing cart. 

“ A cart is just as good as a char-a-banc,” philosophically 
observed Monsieur Krukaine. 

“ I prefer a cart,” said Madame; “ a char-a-banc is so 
vulgar.” 

The countryman winked at them, and emphatically uttered 
the word: 

“ Economical! ” 

u My dear,” said Monsieur Krukaine to his wife, “ what 
is there in that basket ? ” 

“ A cold roast capon, a salad, a pate, a tart, and a bottle 
of Bordeaux,” replied Madame. 

Having thus convinced the countryman that, though they 
rode in a cart, they were people of substance, the Krukaines 
did not open their lips until St. Cloud was reached, when, to 
their infinite comfort, they alighted. 

“ Good morning,” said the countryman, with a knowing 
look, u a cheap ride, eh ? ” The Krukaines did not deign him 
a reply, but walked away with silent scorn. 

They had come so slowly along, that it was now about 


200 


SEVEN YEARS. 


twelve, and the Krukaines soon discovered that they were 
hungry. Their first care, therefore, was to select a convenient 
spot where they might take a slight repast. They were quar¬ 
relling on the subject—for Madame Krukaine wanted to re¬ 
main within sight of the fete, and her husband as energetically 
remonstrated against this course—when the good lady sud¬ 
denly gave a shriek of horror, and exclaimed, in a tone of the 
deepest dismay, “ the basket! ” 

M. Krukaine turned hastily round, filled with prophetic 
dread ; the basket, which should have been on his wife’s arm, 
was gone. 

“ In the cart! ” screamed Madame ; “ you left it in the 
cart.” 

“ I think, my dear, it would be more correct to say you 
left it. What had I to do with the basket ? ” 

“ I say you left it, Monsieur Krukaine : had I not Alex¬ 
ander to mind 1 You ought to be ashamed of yourself—a new 
basket I bought only the other day, besides a cold roast capon, 
a salad, a pate, a tart, a bottle of wine, a porcelain dish, and 
a damask cloth. Well, I do compliment you on your day’s 
work. Oh, you may sneer away ! ” 

M. Krukraine here suggested that the cart might not be 
gone yet, and he accordingly ran back to the spot where they 
had alighted ; but vain hope ! no trace of it remained—cart, 
basket, cold capon, wine, pate, salad, and tart, all had van¬ 
ished. This was the more provoking, that it was very rarely 
the Krukaines ventured to indulge in such luxurious fare as 
they had promised themselves for that day. M. Krukaine’s 
hunger silenced his philosophy for a while, and he slowly 
returned to the spot where he had left his wife in a very bitter 
mood, which the thought of the capon on which the country¬ 
man was going to feast rendered particularly desponding. 

‘‘Well, sir,” triumphantly exclaimed Madame Krukaine, 
“ where is the basket %—your basket, sir ! ” 

“ It is useless to talk of it now, my dear ; the question is, 
What shall we cat ? ” 

“You may eat what you like, Monsieur Krukaine; but 
surely you cannot be very hungry, or you would not have 
left your basket behind you.” 

Without heeding this taunt, M. Krukaine immediately pro¬ 
ceeded to a restaurateur’s, where, on paynig an extravagant 
price, he procured some cold meat, a loaf of bread, and a bottle 
of wine. With these provisions the family made a very 
indifferent meal, the relish it might otherwise have afforded 



SEVEN YEARS. 


201 


them being destroyed by the consciousness of their loss. 
When the repast was over—and, as Madame Krukaine bitterly 
observed, it did not last long—M. Krukaine proposed that 
they should take a walk ; his wife sullenly consented; and 
they accordingly went over the gardens, looked at the fete, 
and endeavoured to admire the fine prospects around them. 
But it was in vain they sought to be amused; disappointment 
and vexation damped their joy, and a cloud even came over 
M. Krukaine’s philosophic spirit every time he thought of the 
cold capon. As though to increase their annoyance, it so hap¬ 
pened that, in going through one of the pleasant woods near 
the gardens, they came to a grassy spot which had been chosen 
by the pic-nic party for their resting-place. A large table¬ 
cloth had been spread on the grass ; the meal was laid out 
upon it, and, though a somewhat heterogeneous one, it looked 
sufficiently tempting to awaken keen feelings of regret and 
envy in the Ivrukaines. It was also remarkably aggravating 
to see in what good spirits the whole party seemed to be. 
M. Theodore’s flute and M. Ledru’s guitar were giving forth 
sweet sounds for the amusement of the company, and to the 
great delight of a few children who were amongst the pic-nic 
party, and danced on the grass with a glee which showed their 
entire satisfaction. This sight produced a great effect on 
Alexander Krukaine’s feelings, which had hitherto been in a 
dormant state; he perceived at a glance the enjoyments of 
which he had been deprived, and insisted on joining the party 
forthwith. His parents peremptorily refused; and as they 
had fortunately escaped Madame Brenu’s eye, they hastened 
to leave the spot whilst still unseen. Alexander felt ag¬ 
grieved ; this feeling increased when Madame Krukaine posi¬ 
tively forbade him to go near the stalls, temptingly covered 
with toys and sweets; and snappishly declared that too much 
money had already been thrown away on that day for her to 
think of squandering any more by the most trifling purchase. 
There was a good deal of stubbornness in Alexander Krukaine’s 
disposition; he was, moreover, accustomed to great indulg¬ 
ence, and on the present occasion he thought himself extremely 
ill-used. To show a proper sense of his wrongs, he spared no 
pains to render both himself and his parents thoroughly un¬ 
comfortable. This was easily effected. Whenever they 
wanted to rest, he insisted on going on; and when, on the 
contrary, they wished to walk, he declared himself too fatigued 
to proceed. Madame Krukaine scolded, M. Krukaine remon¬ 
strated and threatened by turns; but nothing could produce 

9 * 


202 


SEVEN YE AES. 


the least effect on Alexander, who was now roused to a state 
of dogged resistance. 

The Krukaines were heartily glad when evening came 
on. M. Krukaine, who felt a most unphilosophic appetite, 
hinted something about having dinner; but Madame sharply 
observed that they had already dined ; and though her husband 
felt this to be a most lamentable fiction, he was compelled to 
acquiesce. The question was now how they were to go home. 
They endeavoured to secure some conveyance, for fatigue had 
so far conquered their feelings of avarice, as to make them 
willing to sacrifice a few francs to comfort. But this was the 
hour when every one was returning—the most insignificant 
vehicle suddenly rose in importance, and extravagant sums 
were asked and given for a seat. 

“ We will walk home,” indignantly exclaimed Madame 
Krukaine, on beholding this deplorable state of things; and as 
her husband seconded the heroic resolve, they set out imme¬ 
diately. The evening was close and sultry, and before they 
had walked a quarter of a league, Alexander Krukaine, exas¬ 
perated by this forced march, sat down by the roadside, and 
expressed his solemn determination of not going one step 
further. His parents walked on, pretending to leave him be¬ 
hind : but Alexander, who had grown accustomed to mis¬ 
fortunes, remained insensible to this one, and was fast asleep 
by the time they returned near him. What was to be done 1 
M. Krukaine suggested a sound whipping as soon as they should 
reach home. But as this afforded no present relief, his wife 
sharply bade him hold his peace, and began a long recriminat¬ 
ing speech, by which she clearly proved that all their sufferings 
originated in M. Krukaine’s loss of the basket. They were 
still in this dilemma, when a fiacre drove up to the door of a 
villa, near which they were then standing. A gentleman came 
out of the house and stepped into the coach. “ Place Dau- 
phine,” said he to the coachman, who nodded and took his seat. 

M. and Madame Krukaine exchanged a rapid look of 
intelligence. Place Dauphine was close to their abode; the 
seat at the back of the fiacre was wide; the night was dark, 
no one could see them. In short, after a very brief hesitation, 
they seized on the slumbering Alexander, and sprang up 
steathily on the convenient seat, whilst the unsuspecting coach¬ 
man drove off. 

The Krukaines actually chuckled with exultation at the 
success of their stratagem. There was something so truly 
delightful in the idea of riding home for nothing that it made 


SEVEN YEARS. 


203 


them forget the miseries of the day. It is true that they were 
rather uncomfortably seated, and that Alexander, who seemed 
determined to drown the remembrance of his woes in sleep, 
was every minute in danger of falling off; but, as M. Kru- 
kaine wisely remarked, “ What would be the use of philos¬ 
ophy, if it did not teach us to bear patiently such trifling 
inconveniences 1 ” 

They accordingly bore their trials with exemplary forti¬ 
tude, until they discovered, to their dismay, that it was begin¬ 
ning to rain, or, as Madame Krukaine bitterly declared, “ to 
pour.” The unhappy lady opened her parasol in the vain hope 
of sheltering her bonnet; but the only consequence of this 
arrangement was to transfer to it some of the blue of the 
parasol. She fortunately remained unconscious of this un¬ 
looked-for result, and entertained herself by lamenting the 
loss of her husband’s basket, as she persisted in terming it. M. 
Krukaine was thoroughly fatigued and hungry. These were 
sufficient evils even for a sage, and he accordingly fell fast 
asleep, heedless alike of Madame’s scolding and of the rain 
which poured upon him. It was not until the fiacre stopped 
that he wakened with an alarmed start; but he immediately 
recollected the necessity of silence, and alighted noiselessly. 
His next task was to take down Alexander, who was still fast 
asleep, and to rouse Madame Krukaine, who had followed the 
example of her husband and son. These delicate proceedings 
were conducted with so much discretion, that neither the 
tenant of the fiacre nor the coachman suspected what was 
going on. Whilst there was a chance of detection, the Kru- 
kaines prudently remained within the deep shadow of one of 
the neighbouring houses ; but as soon as the fiacre drove away, 
M. Krukaine, who felt uncomfortably cool about the head, * 
exclaimed, “ My dear, will you be kind enough to give me my 
hat ? ” 

“ Your hat! ” indignantly echoed his wife; u what have 
I to do with your hat, sir ? ” 

M. Krukaine was stupefied by this new misfortune. Though 
he had evidently lost his hat whilst sleeping behind the fiacre, 
he refused to believe in this melancholy truth, and repeatedly 
declared there must be some mistake, that it could not be. 
Madame Krukaine listened to her husband’s lamentations 
with bitter triumph, and sarcastically asserted that she felt 
delighted at what had occurred. This was extremely aggra¬ 
vating, and her spouse took it in very ill part; he and Mad¬ 
ame therefore quarrelled on the subject until they grew tired 


204 


SEVEN YE AES. 


of it j after which they began to think of going home. But 
though they knew they ought to be within a very short dis¬ 
tance of their dwelling, they could never succeed in finding 
the turn which led to it: they at first ascribed this to the 
darkness of the night. 

u Most extraordinary, to be sure 1 ” exclaimed M. Kru- 
kaine, rubbing his eyes to ascertain that it was not in them the 
mistake lay. “ Will you be kind enough to tell me the name 
of this place ? ” he asked of a man who happened to be pass¬ 
ing by. 

“ Place Dauphine,” was the answer. 

M. Krukaine breathed freely, and next inquired for the 
way leading to the Rue de l’Arbresec? 

“ I don’t know the street.” 

M. Krukaine’s doubts returned. Perhaps this was not the 
Place Dauphine ; but the man reiterated his assertion. Then 
where was the Rue de l’Arbresec ? The man again declared 
he did not know. 

“ But, my friend,” coaxingly observed M. Krukaine, u let 
me tell you it must be very near this spot.” 

“And let me tell you,” testily answered the man, “ there 
does not exist such a street in all Versailles.” 

u Versailles! ” echoed M. Krukaine in a hollow tone. 

“Versailles! ” screamed Madame Krukaine. 

Alas, they were indeed in Versailles, which possessed a 
Place Dauphine as well as Paris ! The unhappy couple, for¬ 
getting all their causes of dissent, looked on one another in 
mute despair. Versailles was much farther from Paris than 
St. Cloud; the rain still fell heavily; a neighbouring clock 
struck twelve; in short, their misery seemed complete. M. 
Krukaine, whose imagination seemed affected by the misfor¬ 
tunes of the day, scrupled not to declare that they w T ere per¬ 
secuted by an inexorable fatality. One moment he felt 
tempted to defy his destiny; but on second thought, he re¬ 
solved to delay doing this until he should be safely home—an 
event which, as he bitterly observed, did not seem likely 
to occur for some time yet. In the mean while Madame 
Krukaine, who, according to her own assertion, had been pre¬ 
pared, since the loss of her basket, for everything which had 
occurred, learned from the individual who had apprised them 
of their melancholy situation, that they would find a little inn in 
one of the neighbouring streets, where they might probably gain 
admittance for the night. It was not without much difficulty 
that the unhappy Krukaines succeeded in discovering this- 


SEVEN YEARS. 


205 


place of refuge, and in rousing the inmates, who on beholding 
their pitiable condition, consented to receive them, although 
they were unprovided with a passport. But even when they 
found themselves in a comfortable room, and to all appearance 
safe, M. Krukaine remained sceptical, and refused to believe 
that their misfortunes were over. 

u Don’t think yourself safe yet, my dear,” he gravely ob¬ 
served to his wife, as they retired for the night; “ we are the 
victims of fatality.” 

M. Krukaine’s first act on wakening the nest morning, and 
on ascertaining, though he declared himself astonished at such 
an escape, that he had not been spirited away during the night, 
was to send for a hatter, in order to replace the indispensable 
article of wearing apparel he had unfortunately lost. Of 
course he was dreadfully cheated; the hatter knew that he lay 
at his mercy, and made the most of his advantage; but M. 
Krukaine was now prepared for anything, and he bore the im¬ 
position with a kind of desperate resignation. Madame Kru¬ 
kaine did not yield so readily to the decrees of fate ; she gazed 
with unutterable dismay on her bonnet, to which her parasol, 
through the agency of the rain, had imparted a green tint; 
and like those struck by some sudden calamity, she remained 
incredulous, and long refused to believe in the reality of this 
lamentable metamorphosis. When the Krukaines had break¬ 
fasted—and they now felt a sort of recklessness at whatever 
expenses they might incur—they secured a vehicle, of which 
the owner engaged to take them to their own door for what 
M. Krukaine termed an enormous sum; but this was of little 
consequence, as he had made up his mind to submit to all the 
exigencies of destiny until he found himself at his own door 
in Par is. There they arrived at length, after undergoing, as 
he observed in a melancholy tone, a series of unparalleled mis¬ 
fortunes. They had indeed the appearance of travellers 
returning from a disastrous voyage. Madame Krukaine’s 
features were haggard and fatigued; Alexander looked stu 
pefied and dirty ; and though M. Krukaine had suffered least 
in outward appearance, his startled air plainly bespoke the un¬ 
happy victim of fatality. 

The family had no sooner alighted from their conveyance, 
than they perceived the sarcastic countenance of Madame 
Brenu looking down on them from her window. 

“ Why,” she screamed out, “ where have you been all this 
time ? we were so uneasy; I hope you enjoyed yourselves. We 
had quite a delightful day of it, I assure you; dined in the 


206 


SEVEN YEARS. 


wood, and came home just in time to escape the rain. I hope 
you did not get wet. But dear me, what is the matter with your 
bonnet ? Green ! I declare; surely it was yellow yesterday ? 
And where is your basket ? Ah ! empty of all the good things 
by this, I dare say ?” And so the provoking woman went on, 
whilst the unhappy Krukaines, now resigned to anything, did 
not even attempt to retort, but retired to their apartment. 

For several days the Krukaines could think of nothing but 
the disasters which they had met with in the pursuit of 
pleasure; and M. Krukaine clearly proved to his wife that a 
more unhappy couple had never gone to the fete of St. Cloud. 
His next act was to ascertain the precise sum they had spent 
in their unlucky expedition. After a good deal of nice calcu¬ 
lation, he found that, including the loss of basket and hat, 
besides the total ruin of the bonnet and parasol, their expenses 
amounted to fifty-seven francs twenty-five centimes. Madame 
Krukaine raised her eyes and clasped her hands as she 
heard this lamentable result, from which she concluded that 
it was perfect ruin to think of pleasure—a sentiment in which 
her husband entirely acquiesced. But even this soothing 
delusion was not granted to the Krukaines; for as Madame 
Brenu took good care to inform them of the exact sum which 
had been spent by the whole pic nic party, they soon perceived 
that there are two methods of economising—one by which 
pleasure can be procured at a moderate expense, whilst serious 
loss and inconvenience are too frequently entailed by the other. 
The effect produced by this discovery is not yet known ; but 
it is thought that the fit of rheumatism from which M. Kru¬ 
kaine suffered shortly after the fete of St. Cloud, considerably 
softened the rigidity of his economy, whilst the loss of her 
yellow bonnet produced a similar effect on Madame Krukaine’s 
feelings. 

Though the Krukaines have not yet had the magnanimity 
of acknowledging their mistake, they have lately manifested 
signs of improvement in a more liberal style of living. What 
must be considered a good sign of approaching common sense 
was an observation which Madame made the other day to a 
neighbour, 11 that she was afraid there is no way of getting a 
franc for a centimeor, as this wise saw may be Anglicised 
for general benefit, “ there is no getting a shilling for a 
sixpence.” 


SEVEN YEARS. 


207 


THE CONSCRIPT. 

■*% 

It was a mild spring afternoon, with balmy breezes coming 
from distant fields to shut in Paris streets. Flowers bloomed 
in window pots, and birds twittered and sang in cages; the 
sky was blue, with a sprinkling of soft white fleecy clouds, and 
though there was not much of it to be seen from La Rue des 
Perches,—it exists no longer, if indeed it ever existed under 
that name,—though, if you stood in the very centre of that 
street and looked up, you could only see a strip of azure with 
the uneven outline of dark and dingy roofs on either side, yet 
even that glimpse of sky was so cheering and so blue, that it 
was enough to make your heart light for many a day. Anti¬ 
quity has a charm of its own, but old as the Rue des Perches 
was, we can scarcely say that we regret it now it is gone. It 
was a long tortuous street, with shops like dens, and tall 
wretched-looking houses and alleys, which timid people would 
not have liked to enter. Yet it was not a populous street— 
quite the reverse; it was rather quiet and lonely-looking, for, 
above all, it looked poor, and the really poor place is not that 
where a great many people live, but that where no one can 
live. 

At the poorest and loneliest end of the Rue des Perches 
there stood a very small and dark fruiterer’s shop. A few 
withered cabbages and some stale fruit placed at the door 
made a melancholy show, and on the shelves within were sym¬ 
metrically arranged baskets, which, though kindly supposed 
by customers to contain something, were in reality quite 
empty. 

Mathieu Giraud , Fruitier , 

was written in large and half-effaced white letters above the 
door of this humble abode, and the very beauty of the spring 
day only made the withered cabbages, the stale fruit, and the 
dark shop, look more miserable. 

There was no one in that shop; but in a small back room 
beyond it two women were seated. They spoke but little, and 
busily plied their needles, though one of them occasionally 
glanced towards the shop, as if expecting some customer to 
enter 5 but the precaution was needless; it remained vacant \ 


208 


SEVEN YEARS. 


and at every glance the woman sighed, and once more resumed 
her work. The back room was small, and almost bare. A 
dingy bed, half hidden in a recess, a table, and a few chains of 
painted deal, were all the furniture it contained. It was dark, 
moreover, as all back rooms have been from time immemorial, 
and the dull glimmering light which streamed from the high 
narrow window appeared to increase rather than diminish the 
natural gloom of the place. The two women were seated near 
the light, which fell full upon them. They were both some¬ 
what advanced in years; and their pale and wrinkled features 
bespoke a life of poverty and care. They were sisters, but, 
notwithstanding their relationship, very different in temper 
and personal appearance. Antoinette Griraud, the fruiterer’s 
wife, was tall and thin, a simple, meek-looking woman, long 
accustomed to misfortune, to which she had at length submit¬ 
ted with a kind of indifference, proceeding more from a broken 
spirit than from resignation. Ma tante Anne, or Aunt Anne, 
the name under which her sister was generally known, was, on 
the contrary, a brisk little creature, full of spirit and fire, with 
many mysterious winks, and nods, and prophetic hints, which 
it was not given to everybody to understand. She was a firm 
believer in dreams, and held cards, as a means of divination, 
in great reverence; indeed, she trusted to them, and her 
nightly visions, in almost every important occurrence of her 
life ; and, notwithstanding her repeated failures, held her faith 
in them unchanged. It might, indeed, have been supposed 
that Anne lived for the mere purpose of dreaming As she 
had never been married—her unlucky dreams having, she said, 
always come in the way just as she was on the point of con¬ 
tracting a matrimonial engagement—she had for many years 
resided with her sister Antoinette : thus, however, escaping 
only a few of the cares of matrimony. The two females had 
been for some time sewing in silence, when Antoinette, paus¬ 
ing in her work, suddenly observed in a melancholy tone : 

“No, no, I have no hope, Anne ; my poor Jean will not 
get a good number. His father and I have always been un¬ 
lucky, and we shall be so to the end.” And the old woman 
shook her head despondingly. 

“ Ida! Antoinette,” replied Anne, with mysterious solem¬ 
nity, “if Jean had only listened to me he would have con¬ 
sulted Mademoiselle Lenormand before she died, and then we 
should have known what number he was to get, and whether 
he was to be a soldier or not. But no ; he always said it was 
throwing away money. Young people don’t believe in any- 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


209 


tiling now-a-days.” And Anne shook her grey head even 
more sadly than her sister. 

“ If I were only dead, they could not take Jean from 
you,” said a low broken voice, which proceeded from the bed 
in the recess. 

“Did you speak, Mathieu? ” inquired Antoinette, going 
up to the couch of her paralysed husband. 

“ Ay, ay,” he muttered, without making a direct reply, 
“ Heaven help us; our poor Jean has no chance.” 

“ Ay, he has no chance,” sadly repeated his wife, resuming 
her seat. 

Mathieu and Antoinette Giraud had been married for 
many years, and had begun their wedded life with every pros¬ 
pect of happiness. In one sense they had indeed been per¬ 
fectly happy; but so far as worldly matters were concerned, 
they had had to endure all the trials of poverty and misfortune 
combined. After struggling for some time against the diffi¬ 
culties which surrounded them, they had at last been obliged 
to give in, and leave their neat and comfortable fruiterer’s shop 
in the Ilue St. Honore for one' in the centre of the city. 
Scarcely had they removed to their new lodgings, when 
Mathieu became paralysed. This unhappy event cast upon 
his wife the sole burden of attending to the shop and support¬ 
ing the family. To this task, notwithstanding her strenuous 
efforts, Antoinette would have proved wholly inefficient, but 
for the aid she received from her only son, then a youth of fif¬ 
teen. Jean Giraud was scarcely out of his apprenticeship, 
though he had the heart and courage of a man; he was a lock¬ 
smith by trade, but, on account of his youth, he did not earn, 
with all his industry, more than a few francs a week. On 
this scanty sum, and the little that Antoinette and Anne 
made by their sales in the shop, and their exertions in the 
shape of needlework, the whole family contrived to live : no 
easy task, considering that old Mathieu’s illness was very ex¬ 
pensive. Still, they did live, and, as Antoinette often proudly 
observed, “ without owing a single sou to anybody.” 

The French working-classes have, generally speaking, a 
deep and wholesome horror of debt. 

As Jean grew older, his earnings increased, and some com¬ 
fort began to reign in the little family. A few hundred francs 
even went to the savings’ bank; but this was only a provision 
for the approaching time when Jean would probably be 
snatched from his parents to enter the army, according to the 
laws of the French conscription. The fated epoch had now 


210 


SEVEN YEARS. 


arrived: Jean was twenty-one; and on the next day he was, 
with the other youths of the neighbourhood, to proceed to the 
Mairie; and there, in the presence of the mayor, to draw forth 
from an urn a roll of paper on which a number was inscribed. 
If the number was a low one, such as 12, 25, or even 40 or 
50, Jean Giraud must bid his parents farewell, and become a 
soldier; but if it was a high one, as, for instance, 80, 90, or 
100 , there was little or no chance of his being ever called upon 
to fight for his country, and he might quietly remain at home. 
Had he, moreover, been a widow’s son, or afflicted with any 
awkward deformity, this would have sufficed, whatever num¬ 
ber he drew, to exclude him from the service. This was why 
Mathieu, regretting his own useless life, observed with a 
groan, that his poor Jean had no chance; whilst Antoinette, 
thinking of her son’s muscular and well-knit frame, echoed 
with a sigh, u Ay, he has no chance.” 

A melancholy silence had followed these last words, and 
Antoinette was in the shop attending on a customer, when Ma 
tante Anne mysteriously drew a pack of cards from her pocket, 
and muttering to herself, began dealing them out, and spread¬ 
ing them on the table before her. For some time she eyed the 
cards with apparent satisfaction. 

“ All goes on well, Antoinette,” she eagerly said, addressing 
her sister, who now came in from the shop : “just look: here 
is an ace of diamonds, which signifies good news; then here are 
plenty of clubs, which mean money; and now see if the card I 
am going to turn up is not a good one ? ” 

As she spoke she laid the ace of spades upon the table. 
“ Oh ! ” she cried in consternation, “ the ace of spades ! Why, 
I can have no hope after this ! But ’tis all of a piece. I 
dreamt of a rat last night. Ah ! poor Jean, all is ruined ; the 
ace of spades 1 ” and she rocked herself in her chair with every 
token of despair. 

“ What! has anything happened to Jean ? ” inquired a low 
and tremulous voice behind. 

Anne and Antoinette both turned round somewhat hastily; 
but more, however, to greet the new-comer than to testify their 
surprise at her unexpected appearance. 

She who thus anxiously inquired after Jean was a pretty 
brunette, about eighteen, with glossy black hair smoothed un¬ 
der her little white cap, and very brilliant dark eyes. Her 
dress, though remarkably plain and simple, had that indescriba¬ 
ble air of neatness which characterises the better class of the 
Parisian grisettes, and added even a new charm to her attrac- 


SEVEN YEARS. 


211 


tive little person, Marie, for such was the name of the pretty 
grisette, was a giletiere , or waistcoat-maker, and being an 
excellent work-woman, sometimes earned no contemptible sum 
by her industry. She resided in the same house with the 
Grirauds, and, if the truth must be told, had for the last six 
months been betrothed to Jean, whose parents loved her almost 
as tenderly as the young man himself. Marie of course took 
great interest in the question of Jean’s coining fate, as the 
two lovers had agreed to postpone their marriage until all was 
over. If he was so fortunate as to draw a good number, the 
wedding was to take place in less than a twelvemonth; if, on 
the contrary, he became a soldier, Jean and Marie would have 
to wait eight years for the fulfilment of their happiness. 

Marie’s spirits were not cast down by this alternative. 
She was an orphan, and had been early taught self-reliance 
and trust, in Providence. Hope had indeed become so habit¬ 
ual to her, that she would have indulged in it even under des¬ 
perate circumstances. In this disposition she was upheld not 
only by the buoyancy of youth, but also by her natural good 
sense, which led her to contemplate even misfortune under its 
most advantageous aspect. Besides, as she sometimes philo¬ 
sophically observed, “ God was for all; for both rich and poor.” 
It must, however, be confessed that, notwithstanding her phi¬ 
losophy, Marie felt no little anxiety to know the result of 
Jean’s trial on the next day. Eight years was a long period 
to pass without perhaps seeing him more than once or twice ! 
And even less selfish considerations led her to fear this result 
when she reflected on the unhappy condition to which his ab¬ 
sence would reduce his parents. As she entered the back 
room on this evening, and heard Aunt Anne mention the 
name of her betrothed in a tone of despair, Marie, therefore, 
felt some uneasiness; and receiving no reply to her first 
question, she anxiously repeated, “ Has anything happened to 
Jean ? ” 

“ No, Marie,” sadly replied Antoinette; “ ’tis only the 
old story : to-morrow is the day.” 

“ Ay, to-morrow is the day,” sorrowfully echoed Anne; 
“and depend upon it poor Jean will go. I did not turn up 
an ace of spades, or dream of a rat, for nothing.” 

“ Oh ! is that all ? ” said Marie, somewhat relieved ; “ he 
has still a chance, I hope.” 

“ A chance! ” doubtfully answered Antoinette ; “ have we 
not always been unlucky ? No, no, we have no chance. If 
even Jean was lame, or wanted a few teeth, or—” 


212 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ Well,” interrupted Marie, laughing in spite of her real 
grief, “ I am not sorry, for my part, that he is not exactly as 
you would wish him to be. But,” added she, more gravely, 
“ you must not get into low spirits, Madame Giraud ; though 
you have not been very happy as yet, it is true, still a day 
comes at last for the poor as well as for the rich.” 

Here Mathieu sighed audibly, and Marie approached the 
old man’s bed. 

“ How are you this evening, Monsieur Giraud ? ” said she, 
gently. 

Mathieu gazed on her tenderly, but made no reply. He 
had known and loved Marie for years; for when he first fell 
ill, his wife and sister-in-law being sometimes compelled to 
leave him alone, the young waistcoat-maker would then come 
and sit by his bedside with her work, cheering him with her 
pleasant laugh and merry song. It is indeed quite charac¬ 
teristic of the grisette that she always sings, and she has even 
prettily and poetically been called “ the lark of Paris.” 
Never, surely, was there a merrier lark than Marie. From 
staying occasionally near the old man, she at last came to 
spend with him a few hours every day; this was mostly in 
the evening time, when Jean came home from work. The 
young man would then sit at the head of his father’s bed, 
whilst Marie was working at the foot. It was thus their 
courtship began, to the great delight of old Mathieu, who was 
never happier than when he could thus see them together, and 
who now dwelt with bitter grief on their approaching separa¬ 
tion. 

“ If I were dead,” said he, sadly gazing upon her, “ you 
could be his wife.” 

Marie’s eyes filled with tears; but striving to hide her 
feelings, she observed with apparent cheerfulness: “ And why 
not whilst you are alive, Monsieur Giraud ? ” 

“ Because Jean will have a bad number,” replied the old 
man, in the same desponding tone. 

“Well, really,” exclaimed Marie, with some impatience, 
“ you all seem quite determined that it should be so. Aunt 
Anne has turned up an ace of spades, and of course Jean 
must be a soldier; Madame Giraud says that she is poor and 
unlucky, and that there is no chance for him ; and even you, 
Father Giraud,” she added in her most caressing yet reproach¬ 
ful tone—“ even you must needs put in that, if you were dead, 
I should be his wife ! Beally this is too bad. I came here to 
seek for a little comfort, and not only find none for myself, 


SEVEN YEARS. 


213 


but cannot ev6n afford any. I suppose,” she pettishly con¬ 
tinued, “ Jean will be as bad as the rest of you when he comes 
home.” 

As she spoke thus, the door leading from the shop to the 
back room opened, and Jean entered. 

Jean Giraud was, indeed, as his mother had averred, not 
so fortunate as to be afflicted with any personal deformity. 
Far from it. He was tall, well-made, and good-looking; and 
his curly chestnut hair, dark blue eyes, and fresh colour, pro¬ 
claimed him to belong to the real Frank race of his country. 
But on this evening a cloud sat on his usually open brow, and 
notwithstanding his efforts to conceal his feelings, the restless 
glance of his eye, and the occasional nervous twitching of his 
lips, betrayed his secret anxiety. Jean Giraud was as much 
of a hero as any of his countrymen ; he certainly was not of a 
timid disposition, and personal apprehensions had nothing to 
do with his present feelings. His only thoughts were for his 
parents. What were they to do when he was gone ? Who 
was to support them in their present helpless condition ? For 
Antoinette and her sister earned very little, and what the shop 
brought in was barely sufficient to pay the rent and taxes. 
Jean’s mind brooded on these thoughts until he was well-nigh 
distracted. Though he loved Marie most tenderly, still it was 
not the prospect of parting from her that now saddened him : 
she was eighteen, and he twenty-one; they were both young, 
and might wait even eight years and yet be happy. But his 
parents! he strove to think no more of the subject, but in 
vain. 

As he entered the back room where the little family and 
his betrothed were seated together, Jean, however, endeavoured 
to assume something like cheerfulness. He whistled a tune 
with even more than usual glee, bade Marie good-evening with 
a merry joke, and, sitting down at the head of his father’s bed, 
declared he had never been so hungry for supper. Antoinette 
rose silently, and, assisted by Marie, began laying the things 
on the table. The supper was a frugal one, consisting merely 
of some bread, cheese, and wine. They all sat down to it in 
silence, Jean in vain endeavouring to appear cheerful, in order 
to induce his mother and aunt to imitate his example. Scarce¬ 
ly was the meal over, when Antoinette, overcome by her feel¬ 
ings, burst into tears. 

“ Why, maman, what is the matter ? ” exclaimed her son 
with astonishment. 


214 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“Ah, Jean ! what were you whistling?” *she sorrowfully 
replied. 

Jean started, for he had been humming the tune of the 
Parisienne , a favourite military song. 

“Ay, ay,” said Anne, mystically shaking her head, “ ’tis 
only another token. I did not turn up the ace of spades for 
nothing.” 

“ Well, and let us suppose, after all, that he should get a 
bad number,” resolutely observed Marie, “he will not die for 
it—nor shall we, I hope. I know what you are going to say, 
Jean,” she quickly added, noticing her betrothed’s sorrowful 
look as it rested on his mother; “ but I feel very dull in my 
room up stairs; what if, when you are gone, I should lodge 
here ? Madame Giraud could take care of my money for me, 
and I am sure that would be a great relief; for though I do 
not earn much, still sometimes I don’t know what to do with 
it, little as it is.” 

“ Marie! ” exclaimed Jean, in an agitated tone. 

“ I won’t be interrupted,” peremptorily said his betrothed; 
11 besides, Monsieur Jean, this does not concern you, for it is 
ail to be whilst you are away: your only business will be to 
write us such amusing letters as may make us laugh heartily.” 

> “ And if he goes to Algeria ? ” observed his mother, in a 
faltering tone. 

“ Well,” replied Marie, with a faint attempt to smile, “ he 
will perhaps catch Abd-el-Kader, and become marshal of 
France. ” But unable to control her emotion any longer, she 
buried her face in her hands, and fairly burst into tears. 

“ Marie ! ” cried Jean, reproachfully,—but he also could 
/ get no further; and leaning his brow upon his hand, he looked 
very fixedly at the table. 

“Well, well,” said Marie, after a brief though sad pause, 
“ all is not desperate yet. God is for the poor as well as for 
the rich, and perhaps He will leave us Jean.” 

The next morning was as bright and fair a one as was ever 
seen in spring, and the sun shone quite merrily into Madame 
Giraud’s shop, where, with Ma tante Anne, Antoinette was 
engaged in arranging everything, though the thoughts of both 
were certainly but little engrossed by their mutual occupa¬ 
tion. 

“ Antoinette ! ” suddenly said Anne, “ do you know what I 
dreamed of last night ? ” 

“ No,” replied her sister, slightly starting ; “ what was it 
about, Anne ? ” 


SEVEN YEARS. 


215 


“ I dreamed that Jean had a black spot on his forehead.” 

“ Well, and what does that mean ? ” 

“ That means that he will have a bad number.” 

“ Heaven have mercy upon us ! ” sorrowfully observed An¬ 
toinette ; “ but perhaps, sister, you are mistaken ? ” 

“ Mistaken ! ” echoed Anne, with undisguised wonder; 
“ would indeed I were ; but you know, Antoinette, I was 
never mistaken yet in a dream ; besides,” she muttered to her¬ 
self, “ I shall try the cards by and by, and then we shall know 
all about it.” 

“ Hush ! ” said Antoinette, “here is Jean; it is of no use 
to sadden the poor fellow.” 

Jean indeed entered the shop dressed, and, as his poor 
mother declared, with a faint attempt to smile, quite spruce. 
Though not looking particularly merry, he did not seem to be 
very sad; he was calm and composed; for if he felt acutely, 
still his pride would not allow him to betray any unbecoming 
eqiotion in the presence of his comrades who were to accom¬ 
pany him to the Mairie. After greeting his mother and aunt, 
Jean entered the back room, and sat down by his father’s bed¬ 
side. The old man was asleep, but he soon awoke ; and taking 
his son’s hand between his own, gazed upon him with melan¬ 
choly tenderness. 

“ Jean, my boy,” said he, in a low tremulous voice, “ think 
of your poor father whilst you are away, and of your mother 
too ; perhaps you will never see them again. Ah ! this will 
be a sore blow to Antoinette,” he added, in a mournful tone. 

Jean rose, and walked about the room : all this was truly 
hard to bear. 

He found it harder still when he sat down to breakfast be¬ 
tween his mother and Marie, whose red eyes and pale cheeks 
testified that she had spent a sleepless night. The meal was 
a silent one, but it was nearly concluded when Anne entered 
the room. She was more than usually grave, and shook her 
head in a most prophetic and Sibyl-like manner. “ What is 
the matter, Anne ? ” tremulously inquired Antoinette. 

“ I have just been dealing out the cards in my room.” 

“ Well,” anxiously said the poor mother, “ what about 
Jean ? ” 

“ I have seen the number he is to get.” 

“ Ah ! which is it ? ” eagerly asked Madame Giraud. 

“ Jean will get number 27,” replied Anne, solemnly. 

“A bad number 1 ” faintly echoed Antoinette. 


216 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ Maman,” almost angrily exclaimed Jean, “ can anything 
so foolish affect you thus ? ” 

11 Foolish ! ” cried Anne, indignantly; “ ha ! young people 
don’t believe in anything now-a-days. I only grieve for you, 
Jean, that I am in the right; would indeed I were wrong, and 
that you were not to get that ugly number 27 ! ” 

Jean knew his aunt’s obstinacy on this head, and, unwill¬ 
ing to irritate her uselessly, he dropped the subject. 

When the breakfast was over—and a cheerless one it was 
—all arose, for it was time for Jean to depart. He first went 
to his father’s bedside. Old Mathieu caused himself to be 
raised on his couch, and in a low broken tone muttered a heart¬ 
felt benediction over his son, whilst the weeping Antoinette 
stood near him. From his parents Jean turned to Aunt Anne, 
who very affectionately embraced him, but muttered something 
at the same time about his unfortunate incredulity, and num¬ 
ber 27. Marie alone seemed collected and calm, and though 
she was sad, a smile of hope played around her lips. 

“ Be of good cheer, Jean,” said she, giving him her hand : 
“ God is for us all, for the poor and the rich. Be of good 
cheer; should even the worst happen, we will strive to bear it 
patiently.” 

Jean gazed affectionately on his betrothed, and once more 
embracing his weeping mother, precipitately left the house, not 
daring to trust himself with a look behind. 

We will not endeavour to describe the hours of anxious ex¬ 
pectation that followed—hours that actually seemed days, so 
slowly and tediously did they drag along. Antoinette, under 
pretence of seeing to the shop, was constantly looking in the 
street for Jean; whilst Anne every quarter of an hour went 
up-stairs to her room with a mysterious look, and came down fc 
again with a clouded brow and ominous glance. The infection 
seemed to have caught Marie herself; for though she sat with 
her work near Mathieu’s bed, the old man sadly remarked that 
her needle often flagged, and, for the first time since many 
days, that she had no merry song to cheer him. Then there 
were two or three old neighbours who occasionally peeped in 
and out with wo-begone features, holding mysterious confer¬ 
ences with Aunt Anne, and startling her poor sister by dismal 
tales of many a young and handsome conscript whom they had 
known, and who had fallen, poor fellow, in his first battle. In 
short, they were all as comfortably miserable as they could be, 
when Marie, unable to bear her impatience any longer, left 
her work, and going to the shop-door, looked out into the 


SEVEN YEARS. 


217 


street. It was vacant, and no token of Jean was to be seen. 
With a sigh she once more entered the back room; she had 
scarce]} 7 , however, reached the threshold, when she suddenly 
paused, and turned pale : a loud shout had echoed at the 
furthest end of the street. 

“ The conscripts ! ” said Antoinette, in a low tone. 

“ So soon ! ” answered Marie, with seeming indifference ; 
“ don’t you think it may be something else ? ” 

“ No, no,” replied Antoinette, in a feverish voice; “ it is 
the conscripts ; I hear their music.” 

The merry sounds of a fiddle might, indeed, as she spoke, 
be heard at the end of the street. Supported by Marie, for 
she was nearly overcome with emotion, and followed by her 
sister, the poor mother proceeded to the front door, whilst 
Mathieu prayed fervently in his bed. 

When they looked out, the conscripts still stood somewhat 
far down in the street. Their hats were ornamented with tri¬ 
colored favours, and the number each had drawn, whether good 
or bad, was fixed in his hatband, and visible even at a dis¬ 
tance. But Antoinette and Marie vainly strove to distinguish 
Jean in the crowd. 

“ I see him ! ” at length cried Marie, turning pale. 

u Ha ! where is he ? what is his number ? ” simultaneously 
exclaimed the two sisters, less clear-sighted than their young 
companion. 

“ There—there beyond : he looks round this way; but I 
can see nothing of his number.” 

“ Ay, ay, I see him now,” eagerly remarked Aunt Anne ; 
“ and alas ! poor boy, I can see his number too. Ah ! I knew 
it—27 ! ” 

“ It is not 27,” hastily observed Marie; u for see, Aunt 
Anne, Jean holds up his hat for us to see it: the number be¬ 
gins with a one, and then there is a nought.” 

“ Ay, ten,” said Anne ; “ worse still than 27; I knew it 
was a bad one.” 

u No, it is not ten,” continued Marie, in a tone tremulous 
with emotion, “ there is another nought—it is a hundred ; ” 
and falling down on a chair, she burst into tears, whilst Jean 
rushed into the shop, waving his hat with triumph. 

We will not endeavour to describe the scene that followed— 
Old Mathieu’s joy, Antoinette’s silent rapture, and Marie’s 
bright smiles. Aunt Anne, though greatly delighted, was very 
much surprised : both her dreams and cards had for once sig¬ 
nally failed. As for the dream, it was, she averred, quite her 
10 


218 


SEVEN YEARS. 


own mistake, for evidently the spot on Jean’s forehead meant 
nothing : it should have been on his hat, to prove at all signifi¬ 
cant ! Then she had most probably misdealt the cards ; such 
an error could never otherwise have happened—nay, she even 
recollected something about a hundred ! Further than this 
Aunt Anne would never yield when remonstrated with on the 
subject. It is, however, worthy of remark, that her faith in 
dreams and cards seemed rather shaken, as she henceforth in¬ 
dulged in much less speculation concerning them than she had 
formerly been in the habit of doing. As for the old neighbours, 
they were very much pleased, but not so much surprised ; they 
were almost certain all would turn out well, but had not said 
so, lest they should excite expectations that might be deceived. 
But to return to the conscript and his family. 

The day was spent by them in much happiness; indeed 
there was almost too much of this quality in it. The event 
was so delightful, so unexpected, so everything that was 
pleasant, that Antoinette, Anne, Marie, and Jean were quite 
bewildered. Mathieu seemed alone a little sensible. Towards 
evening they had, however, grown calmer, and after supper, 
sat up to make plans for the future—the only apparent conse¬ 
quence of which was, their separating very late. When Marie 
at length rose to depart, and bent over Mathieu to bid him good¬ 
night, she could not resist the temptation of whispering to 
him—“ Well, Father G-iraud, do you wish to die now ? ” > 

“No, Marie,” said he, gazing on her affectionately; “no, 
not yet.” 

“ And you, Madame Giraud,” playfully said the young 
girl, turning towards Antoinette, “ don’t you think we poor 
folks are sometimes as happy as the rich, if not a great deal 
more so ? ” 

“ Ay, and ten times as happy,” w r armly replied Antoinette, 
who was now quite merry. 

“ No, not ten times,” smilingly observed Marie ; “ for you 
know God watches over both rich and poor.” 

The sequel need scarcely be told. In less than a year Jean 
and Marie were married, and old Mathieu, though still para¬ 
lysed, declared himself so happy at the event, that he expressed 
his readiness to die; which has not, however, prevented him 
from living ever since, and repeating the same wish on the birth 
of his son’s first child, which, being a girl, will give its parents 
no uneasiness on the subject of the conscription. Jean and 
Marie have not grown very rich, but they have left the Hue des 
Perches, for a pleasant airy street in the suburbs, and a fresh 


SEVEN TEARS. 


219 


green-shop, where the cabbages are never withered, and which 
is so frequently visited by the children of the neighbourhood, 
that no fruit grows stale in it. Antoinette superintends the 
general concerns of the house, Anne has taken charge of the 
little Marie, whose horoscope she persists in formally drawing 
on every anniversary of her birthday. Jean attends to his 
work; and Marie, though she still contrives to earn a few 
francs with her waistcoats, attends to the shop, and, as old 
Mathieu declares, gladdens the whole place with her merry 
song. “ And yet,” as she often observes, “ how strange that 
all this happiness should have depended on one insignificant 
little number ! ” It is true Marie generally closes this philo¬ 
sophical remark by quoting her favourite saying; but it is, we 
hope, too well impressed on the mind of the reader to require 
repetition, 
mmmo 

-»-♦-'>- 


GAIETY AND GLOOM. 

Among the passengers on board a steamer which one morn¬ 
ing left Dover for Calais, was a young Englishman of some¬ 
what fashionable appearance, who seemed to shun as far as 
possible all contact with his fellow-travellers : wrapped up in 
mysterious silence, he proceeded, on landing, by the first dili¬ 
gence which departed for Paris. All we have to say concerns 
this young gentleman, and we may as well tell his history at 
once. 

Frank Marlow was the son of a respectable London mer¬ 
chant, who had given him an education at Eton, which fully 
qualified him in that very easy art—the art of spending. To 
do justice to Frank Marlow, he took very kindly to this piece 
of ingenuity. In little more than two years after the old gen¬ 
tleman’s death, he had got through his handsome patrimony; 
a mere wreck was all that remained ; and here he was, a self- 
exiled man, seeking for oblivion in the obscurities of Paris. 

Like most persons who have gone through a fortune, Frank 
was full of terrible notions about the rapacity of mankind. He 
had been cruelly used by his so called friends. The world was 
all a mass of deceit. “ Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” was 
his song, and a very appropriate song, too, for all exhausted 
prodigals to sing. Frank, at eight-and-twenty, was a gloomy 
misanthrope, a hater of everybody ; though there was only one 




220 


SEVEN YEARS. 


man on the wide earth whom he should have despised, and that 
was himself. 

Frank sought oblivion. He wanted to live no one knew 
where; and the more obscurely he could hide himself, he 
thought he should be the happier. Several lodgings were tried 
in Paris, but they proved too garish and cheerful. In one 
house he heard the sound of a flageolet, which was enough. 
Horrid, deceitful villains—all bad people are merry ! At 
length he fell upon a lodging quite to his fancy. It was on a 
fourth floor of a tall old-fashioned building—jso exceedingly tall 
and narrow, that it seemed as if it had been squeezed out of 
shape by the houses which leant upon it. This uncomfortable¬ 
looking tenement was situated in a dull, narrow street, into 
which very little sun ever shone. It had the air of a great, 
long grave; just the kind of abode for people who take a fancy 
to be miserable. 

Satisfactory as the new lodging was in many respects, a 
day or two’s experience showed the morose young English¬ 
man that, if he wanted to be perfectly beyond the reach of 
gaiety, Paris was the worst place in the world to which he 
could have come. The landlady, Madame Bernard, was an 
exceedingly merry, sweet-tempered person. As the wife of an 
operative locksmith, who did not enjoy good health, the mother 
of several children, the protector of a poor orphan niece, 
Adele, and the mistress of a very limited accommodation, she 
may be supposed to have had some tolerable reasons for 
being careworn; but not all these things, nor the gloomy, 
gravelike street in which she lived, could force a sigh from 
her bosom. She was always as bright as a streak of sun¬ 
shine. While toiling in her little den of a kitchen, whose 
only light was that of a sepulchral-looking lamp, the French¬ 
woman was as blithe as any uncaged lark. 

It was perhaps because Frank did not see much of this 
gaiety that he did not feel seriously distressed about it. His 
interviews with Madame were few and short. Her principal 
visit was to kindle his fire, and serve his coffee in the morn¬ 
ing ; and on such occasions she used to launch out a little in 
the way of gossip, believing, kind soul, that Monsieur had 
some great grief which needed to be assuaged by conversation. 
Among other subjects on which she expatiated was that of 
neighbours—a fruitful one to landladies all the world over. 
In spite of himself, Frank found that Madame Bernard’s 
gossip was worth listening to, for it gave a sort of insight into 
human nature. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


221 


First on the good dame’s list came a mysterious couple, 
Monsieur and Madame Dezille, who seemed to live in a pinch¬ 
ed kind of a way. Madame was a tall, pale, melancholy-look¬ 
ing woman, who appeared to carry inker mind some ponderous 
secret, and was always embroidering purses. Her husband 
was a comical-looking little man, who was never seen but in a 
long great-coat, that fell down to his heels. The most incom¬ 
prehensible thing about him, however, was liis practice of re¬ 
maining at home all day, and his going out at night, and 
never returning till past two in the morning, to the great 
wrath of the portress, w'ho, out of pure spite, averred that he 
was a mouchard , or secret spy of the police. She even once 
called him so to his face; but Monsieur Dezille, far from 
making any contradictory reply calculated to enlighten her on 
the subject, listened to her with provoking complacency, and 
quietly bidding her good-morning, walked up-stairs. 

The great secret at length came out. It was discovered, 
to the satisfaction of the portress and her lodgers, that Mon¬ 
sieur Dezille repaired every evening to a public ball behind 
the Palais Royal, where his office consisted in taking care of 
the canes and umbrellas belonging to the dancers, for which 
dignified occupation he received the munificent' salary of sixty 
francs (about £2 8s.) a month, as long as the ball was open— 
that is to say, during the winter season only. How he and his 
wife lived throughout the remainder of the year was more than 
any one could tell. From the moment that these circumstances 
were known to them, the portress and lodgers ceased to inter¬ 
est themselves any further in the fate of the humble pair; 
biit Marlow observed—and the trait impressed him with a 
favourable opinion of her character—that whereas Madame 
Bernard had formerly looked with a suspicious eye on her 
neighbours, she now no sooner knew them to be honest, though 
poor, than she immediately gave them tokens of her good¬ 
will by numerous little attentions she had formerly neglected 
to pay. 

Somehow or other—perhaps because they instinctively saw 
the truth and simplicity of her character—the shy and proud 
couple grew more condescending; and though evidently su¬ 
perior, in education at least, to the locksmith and his wife, 
they freely conversed with them, until they at last came to be 
on very amicable terms together. And then, but not till 
then, did Madame Dezille confide to her simple good-natured 
friend the secret which weighed on her soul. “ Monsieur De¬ 
zille ”—she scorned the vulgar term of her husband—“ was 


222 


SEVEN YEARS. 


not merely wliat lie seemed to be : he was more—he was a poet 
and an author.” Madame Bernard heard with silent awe. “ Like 
that of other great men, his life had been a perfect romance. 
He was a god-son of a reigning potentate—a German one,” 
added Madame Dezille, with strong emphasis, “ whose valet 
his father had been for many years whilst he was exiled in 
France by his rebellious subjects.” 

Then followed a thrilling narrative of persecutions, im¬ 
prisonments in deep dungeons, and hair-breadth escapes over 
high castle walls, all of which had been endured and effected 
by Monsieur Dezille in foreign lands, through the enmity of 
his unnatural god-father, whom he had unluckily offended; 
until, after innumerable difficulties, he succeeded in reaching 
his native country, where, like another Othello, he won his 
Desdemona by the history of the sufferings his youth had un¬ 
dergone. All this Madame Bernard, good, simple soul, heard 
with reverend belief. Indeed it is very probable that it was 
almost all true; and, far from diminishing or abridging the 
narrative, which she the very next day repeated to Marlow, 
she rather increased its bulk by a few additional embellish¬ 
ments of her own, which she very innocently and uncon¬ 
sciously bestowed on Monsieur Dezille’s adventures. 

The occupier of the third apartment on the landing was a 
morose, surly old bachelor, named Ricord, whom everybody 
disliked—even the kind Madame Bernard, if indeed she ever 
disliked anybody—and who played on an old fiddle, as cross 
and croaking as himself. It was some time before Marlow 
discovered this circumstance; and even when it became known 
to him, he was reconciled to it by the character of the musi¬ 
cian, which, as described by Madame Bernard, who had 
learned it from the portress, was anything but cheerful or 
lively. 

Several months passed away, during which Marlow, whose 
only amusement was listening to Madame Bernard’s morning 
conversation, felt very dull, yet nevertheless persisted in his 
misanthropic mode of existence. One cold winter’s day, when 
he was as usual poring over the “ Journal des Debats,” and 
occasionally listening to his landlady, he gradually drew away 
his attention from the newspaper to bestow it on Madame 
Bernard. She was talking of Monsieur and Madame Dezille 
with more than customary animation. 

“ Yes, sir,” she continued, for she had been speaking for 
some time, “ I met Madame Dezille on the stairs last night, 
and she told me everything about it. Monsieur Dezille has 


SEVEN YEARS. 


223 


just finished a superbe comedy, all about kings and queens. 
Monsieur,” addressing Marlow, “ has heard, I suppose, that 
his father was valet to a German sovereign, so that he of 
course knows everything about these great people; and his 
god-father, with all the princes and princesses, are to be in it; 
and when it is acted, it will create little less than a revolution 
in Germany; for Madame Dezille says that when he read it 
to her, it made her hair stand all on end, it was so awful. 
But what shows, moreover, that it is certainly a good comedy 
is, that Monsieur Dezille, after treating all his friends and 
comrades of the ball-room where he goes in the evening, read 
it to them, and could scarcely go on with it for their applause. 
Indeed they all to a man declared that the director of the 
Theatre Fran^ais would be astonished to hear it; that it would 
be one of the fine plays of the classic boards; and so delighted 
were they, and so heartily did they drink his health, that Mad¬ 
ame Dezille, poor woman, sighed and turned up her eyes whilst 
she was telling me about it. So I spoke to Bernard this 
morning, and we agreed to ask Monsieur and Madame Dezille 
to come and spend the evening with us, and be merry. We 
shall have some cider, with roasted chestnuts and pancakes, 
and Monsieur Dezille has promised to read his comedy. Per¬ 
haps,” continued Madame Bernard, with an insinuating smile, 
“ Monsieur would like to hear the comedy ? I am sure we 
should be very happy—” But here the gloom that suddenly 
gathered over Marlow’s features as she spoke, warned her 
that this was dangerous ground, so, correcting herself, she 
hastily added, “ But I suppose Monsieur does not much care 
about such things ? ” 

It was not, however, at her presumption that Marlow felt 
incensed; he had too much good sense to take in ill part an 
offer he knew to be kindly meant; but his misanthropical no¬ 
tions were terribly shocked to perceive that his landlady and 
her husband—a locksmith too—were going to indulge them¬ 
selves in a party, one of those dangerous and pernicious amuse¬ 
ments which had ruined him, “ and will ruin many more,” he 
bitterly thought, ‘‘whilst the love of luxury and ostentation 
are to be found upon earth. Ay,” he continued in a thought¬ 
ful mood, “ I see it all even now : these people are as credu¬ 
lous and simple as their neighbours are knowing and selfish ; 
they will allow themselves to be duped and flattered; the par¬ 
ties will be renewed, always of course at their expense, until 
they have nothing more to bestow. They will then be laughed 
at for their pains; the husband, disgusted with his comfortless 


224 


SEVEN YE AES. 


home and his wife’s ill temper, will become a drunkard; and 
as for the poor children, beggary and starvation await them.” 

“ Will Monsieur be at home this evening? ” inquired the 
cheerful voice of Madame Bernard. 

“ No; I am going out for the day,” abruptly replied 
Marlow. 

“ Must I keep Monsieur’s fire in?’’she continued, with 
unalterable good-humour. 

This time Marlow answered in a milder tone, that she 
need not take the trouble, as he would not come home till 
late in the evening. 

The day was fine and frosty, so our hero immediately 
sallied out, fully determined not to return until Monsieur and 
Madame Dezille and the comedy were all fairly despatched. 
He took a long walk; but as, after all, the day was not yet 
half spent, he resolved to call upon the only acquaintance he 
had formed in Paris. His friend lived far away ; Marlow did 
not reach his dwelling till dusk, and, as ill luck would have 
it, did not find him within. In a rather sulky mood, he now 
resolved to go home ; but as though to increase his ill-humour, 
there came on a thaw, accompanied with a drizzling rain, which 
promised to last for the whole evening. He was unprovid¬ 
ed with an umbrella, and could not find a single cab or omni¬ 
bus until he was within five minutes’ walk of the street in 
which he resided. It was nine o’clock when he reached his 
quatrieme etage , thoroughly tired, drenched to the skin, and, 
above all, highly irritated against his landlady, to whose un¬ 
lucky party he ascribed his mishap. 

As he usually left his key in Madame Bernard's keeping, 
he was now obliged to koock at her door in order to procure 
it from her. No sooner had'he reached the landing, than the 
sounds of several voices within, mingling with occasional 
bursts of laughter and applause, greeted his ear. As his sum¬ 
mons had evidently not been heard or heeded, Marlow, with¬ 
out further ceremony, entered the kitchen, and called out for 
Madame Bernard; but the good dame, who was busy frying 
pancakes over the stove,—which was so .contrived that any 
such simple cookery could easily be effected through its means, 
—apparently did not hear him, for she made no reply. Mar¬ 
low impatiently advanced, but paused when he reached the 
glass-door which divided him from the dining-room, where all 
the party were assembled ; for, notwithstanding his ill-humour, 
he was not quite averse to obtain a cursory view of Madame 


SEVEN YE AES. 


225 


Bernard’s guests. Owing to her accurate description, lie soon 
recognized every one of them. 

With the exception of Madame Bernard herself, and of 
her niece and the children, who were busy roasting chestnuts, 
they were all seated round the table, on which stood an old- 
fashioned lamp, which shed its light around, and enabled Mar¬ 
low to take a full view of their countenances. In the most 
comfortable and easy chair, near the warm stove, sat his old 
crabbed neighbour of the fiddle, whom he had met once or 
twice on the staircase. He could at first scarcely believe his 
eyes, and thought it must be some error of his; but a strange¬ 
ly fashioned and antiquated-looking instrument, which lay on 
the table, fully confirmed the fact. Madame Dezille, who sat 
next to him, was as usual embroidering a purse; whilst her. 
husband, the man of the comedy, with bent brow and fierce 
aspect, read something from a manuscript before him; and to 
enforce or illustrate his meaning, occasionally struck his 
clenched fist on the table, making the wine-glasses and the 
old fiddle itself ring again. The locksmith, good man, listen¬ 
ed wfith much gravity and awe; and when he succeeded in 
catching Monsieur Dezille’s eye, and saw that it was the 
proper time for him to do so, applauded with all his might. 
Marlow listened in the hopes of catching something ; but what 
between the hissing of Madame Bernard’s pan, and his im¬ 
perfect knowledge of French, he could only distinguish the 
words of “ traitor ”—“perfidious monarch, tremble and fear,” 
&c., very frequently repeated. Growing somewhat impatient, 
Marlow was on the point of entering the room, at the immi¬ 
nent risk of destroying the effect of the best passage in Mon¬ 
sieur Dezille’s play, when the latter, who was closely eyeing 
Madame Bernard’s motions, hastened to wind up the critical 
scene with a kind of fierce flourish, threw his manuscript on 
the table, and, in the excitement of the moment, recklessly 
swallowed down a burning cake just hot from the pan. His 
kind hostess gazed upon him with alarm; but Monsieur 
Dezille was perfectly cool and composed; it seemed, as Mad¬ 
ame Bernard afterwards observed, as though nothing could 
have an effect upon him. 

Thinking the moment favourable, Marlow now opened the 
door, and thrusting his head into the room, sharply called 
out: 

“ Madame Bernard.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ My key.” 

10 * 


226 


SEVEN YEARS. 


In a moment Madame Bernard was by his side, pouring 
forth excuses for having given Monsieur the trouble of coming 
so far; u but then,” she added, apologetically, “ I did not 
think Monsieur meant to come home so early. However, 
Monsieur’s fire will be ready in two minutes; but bless me ! 
Monsieur is wet to the bone. Will not Monsieur come in and 
dry himself at the stove ? ” 

Marlow stiffly thanked her and refused. 

“ Indeed, sir, you will take your death of cold,” persisted 
Madame Bernard, and she added such pressing arguments and 
entreaties, that wearied at length with her remonstrances, and 
somewhat tempted, too, by the warm atmosphere of the room, 
he consented to enter, concluding that he should only stay a 
few minutes after all, and took a seat near the stove, upon 
which Adele was now warming some wine for him, this being, 
in Madame Bernard’s estimation, an excellent preservative 
against a cold. The French of every class possess an instinc¬ 
tive politeness, wdiich teaches them that nothing can be more 
disagreeable to a stranger than to excite too much observation, 
Thus on this occasion, with whatever real curiosity they might 
have been disposed to eye “ the proud Englishman, who spoke 
to nobody,” Madame Bernard’s guests showed no token of it: 
and politely making room for Marlow, took as little notice of 
him as possible. 

Everything went on as though he had not been there. 
Two bottles of cider were brought out, and uncorked in great 
ceremony by the locksmith, whose health and that of Madame 
Bernard was drunk by every one present; a compliment which 
was duly acknowledged and returned. The cider (it cost ten 
sous, or fivepence a bottle) was pronounced delicious. Marlow 
was amongst the first invited to test its merits, but as he re¬ 
fused in a very peremptory and morose tone, Monsieur Ber¬ 
nard had tact enough not to use any pressing. The hot roast¬ 
ed chestnuts were next produced in a large earthen dish, and 
every one immediately began peeling and eating them with 
relish. This is a favourite amusement in France, both with 
children and grown-up people amongst the poorer classes, who 
particularly enjoy it by the fire-side on cold winter evenings. 
Its general merit is, that it does not interfere with conversa¬ 
tion ; and so Marlow soon found, for the table having been re¬ 
moved, every one drew round the stove, and became very 
chatty. 

Monsieur Dezille was evidently the wit of the party; he 
could not open his mouth to swallow a chestnut, or utter 


SEVEN YEAES. 


227 


a bon-mot, but the locksmith was ready to laugh and be 
amused, whilst Madame Dezille admiringly turned up her eyes. 
Even old Monsieur Ricord’s grim features occasionally relaxed 
into an approving smile; as to the niece and children, they 
were in perfect ecstacies, laughing and clapping their hands 
with glee at everything they saw or heard. But as he wit¬ 
nessed the mirth and enjoyment of those around him, Marlow’s 
gloom and ill-humour increased : he sat apart, scowling on the 
company, or smiling with undisguised contempt at Monsieur 
Dezille’s most brilliant witticisms, and often impatiently glanc¬ 
ing towards the door, as though wishing for Madame Bernard’s 
reappearance. All advances to conversation he scornfully re¬ 
pelled. 

Once or twice, however, Monsieur Dezille, who longed to 
enter into a literary controversy with him, adroitly made a 
few preliminary remarks on the weather, having heard that 
this was a favourite subject with all Englishmen; and thence 
suddenly plunged deep into epic poetry and the art of ballad¬ 
making, the latter of which he placed far above the former, as 
being much more interesting, and certainly more difficult. 

“And this Monsieur Dezille ought to know,” here put in 
Madame Dezille, looking up from her purse, “ for he writes 
charming ballads.” 

“ Does he write epics ? ” satirically asked Marlow. 

“ I cannot say that I ever condescended to make the at¬ 
tempt,” loftily replied Monsieur Dezille, cracking a chestnut. 

“ Poets are fools,” dogmatically said Marlow, “ and poetry 
is folly.” 

“ Ay, that it is,” sourly said the owner of the fiddle, 
speaking for the first time since the entrance of Marlow. 

“ How pe.ople can lose their time, and waste paper in 
writing at all—” began Marlow. 

“ Is more than I, as a man of sense, can imagine,” put in 
Monsieur Ricord. 

And so they went on, Marlow continuing his sharp attack 
on authors and poets in general, in the abuse of whom he was 
materially assisted by Monsieur Ricord, who, though avoiding 
the mild deprecatory glance of Madame Dezille, was twice as 
fierce and pungent as himself, all his natural crabbedness having 
seemingly returned. Monsieur Dezille heard them both with 
much philosophical composure, smiled once or twice upon them, 
and as he made no reply, soon silenced them on that subject 
at least; for Monsieur Ricord, who, when once aroused, was 
not easily quieted, finding no more to say on poets and poetry, 


228 


SEVEN YE AES. 


launched out into the praises of his fiddle, the only earthly 
object for which, it was asserted, he felt any love or sym¬ 
pathy. 

Now this very fiddle had long been a source of annoyance 
to our hero; its dismal squeaking sounds had more than once 
wakened him out of his sweetest morning slumbers; and then 
its owner had a knack of harping upon one peculiar string, 
which so jarred with Marlow’s delicate nerves, that he was not 
at all sorry to find an opportunity of retaliating. Besides, 
why did the Bernards invite this disagreeable old man to their 
party ? Monsieur Dezille and his comedy were already bad ' 
enough. So, without further fear or mercy, he began abusing 
the unfortunate fiddle; and, spite of the groans and indignant 
remonstrances of its owner, clearly showed it to be ill-made, 
old, crazy, and out of tune. 

“ Monsieur,” said Bicord, in a voice tremulous with pas¬ 
sion, “ will you allow me to ask if you know what a fiddle 
is ? ” 

11 There never was such a detestable old thing as that” 
was the only reply of Marlow, scornfully pointing to the 
fiddle. 

It was in vain that the gentle Madame Bernard, who was 
now in the room distributing the pancakes, cast a beseeching 
glance towards him, as though to beg for his silence, and even 
once or twice hinted that his wine was warm and his fire lit. 
He eyed her sternly; and as his bile was fairly roused, he 
suddenly turned upon her, and in a style which the bitterness 
of his feelings rendered almost eloquent, began a pointed 
attack on the extravagance of those persons who endeavour to 
rise above their station in life, by imitating the follies of their 
superiors. As this was a subject which always inspired Mar¬ 
low with ready and forcible arguments, his words soon pro¬ 
duced a visible effect upon his listeners. Gradually a cloud 
came over the honest and merry visage of the locksmith; even 
Madame Bernard looked somewhat doubtful, as though slio 
did not feel quite certain of being in the right; and the 
children instinctively drew away from the Monsieur Anglais , 
whom the old bachelor still eyed with indignant feelings. 
Monsieur Dezille alone preserved an unalterable serenity; and 
whilst the others allowed their cider to stand still, and the 
pancakes to grow cold, he enjoyed both with unabated gusto. 

When Marlow at length came to a pause in his discourse, 
Madame Bernard observed— u I am afraid Monsieur’s fire will 


SEVEN YEARS. 


229 


be out now; but if Monsieur will stay here till I light it 
again—” 

“ No, thank you,” interrupted Marlow, who, as he felt 
conscious of having damped, if not destroyed, the enjo}mients 
of all present, experienced certain twinges of conscience; “I 
shall go to bed directly; ” and taking the light which his 
hostess offered him, without, however, her usual cordiality, he 
retired to his apartment, endeavouring to persuade himself that 
he had no reason to repent of what he had done, since he had 
merely given the Bernards a bitter, though salutary lesson. 

When he reached his room, he found that, according to 
Madame Bernard’s prognostication, his fire was quite out— 
worse still, he had forgotten, in his excitement, to take the 
hot-sugared wine prepared for him by his kind landlady; his 
clothes were not half dry; he was cold, and felt in a miserable 
plight. Somehow or other his remorse began to revive : his 
certainty of having acted rightly was not now quite so strong: 
nay, he even fancied he might be in the wrong. 

“ After all,” said he abstractedly, seating himself opposite 
the blank and dreary fire-place, “ what great harm did those 
honest people commit in amusing themselves cheerfully and 
innocently ? They were not idle; for, save the locksmith, 
and the little author, and the old bachelor, every one was oc¬ 
cupied. The author’s wife was embroidering a purse; Madame 
Bernard had been mending her husband’s socks; and I think 
that even the little girls were busy with their samplers. All this 
was very right. Then how much,” continued Marlow, “ may 
they have spent ? Why, a franc or two ! Surely that is not too 
much for a little of that honest cordial enjoyment which I so 
wantonly destroyed? Yes, I have deprived them of their in¬ 
nocent mirth : I see it all. Madame Bernard and her husband 
are bitterly reflecting on their folly, and cast cold looks on 
their guests, who begin to experience the galling feeling that 
they have ceased to be welcome; the very children are sulky 
and sleepy, and every one is thoroughly miserable ; and this,” 
he exclaimed aloud, with great warmth—“ this is my doing! 
Nay, it shall not be said that when I see an error I do not 
know how to repair it. I will go in to them this minute, and 
cheer and comfort them, if, indeed, it be still in my power to 
do so.” And so saying, he rose from his seat, and with a 
hasty stride proceeded towards the door; but when his hand 
was on the lock, he paused. “ What excuse shall I give for 
going in again?” said he to himself. “Pshaw! did I not 
leave my hot wine behind me, and is not my fire out ? ” he 


230 


SEVEN TEARS. 


added with a shiver; and without further delay he opened his 
door, and advanced towards that of the Bernards, from which 
he was only divided by the landing. He had not, however, 
gone a step, before he paused with sudden surprise. Surely 
it was an error ? But no; his ear did not deceive him : the 
merry sound of a fiddle was proceeding from the apartment 
within. It so chanced that, on coming out a few minutes be¬ 
fore, Marlow had left the outer door of Madame Bernard’s 
kitchen half open, as he now perceived by the streak of light 
which lit up the landing. Impelled by strong curiosity, he 
approached the door, and without entering, peeped in. Owing 
to the glass door, he could partly discern what was going on in 
the second room. 

To his indignant astonishment, the individuals whom he 
had left, according to his belief, in a state of desponding gloom 
and melancholy, were now evidently in high glee, and enjoying 
themselves to the best of their power. The old bachelor, who 
seemed quite merry, was scraping away on his fiddle with in¬ 
dignant vehemence, as though to clear it from Marlow’s ca¬ 
lumnious aspersions; Monsieur Dezille was lustily singing one 
of his own songs to its accompaniment, whilst the locksmith 
merrily beat time on the table, and the children and the niece 
danced at the other end of the room. The melancholy 
Madame Dezille herself looked happy for once : Madame Ber¬ 
nard only looked as she ever did look—the most cheerful and 
contented of human beings. To crown the whole, Marlow 
distinctly recognised in the black mug which amicably stood 
between the old bachelor and Monsieur Dezille, the identical 
one into which his hot-sugared wine had been poured. His 
interference was evidently quite unnecessary to restore a good 
feeling amongst all present. However contradictory it may 
appear, Marlow was by no means delighted at this unexpected 
result, but retired to rest in high dudgeon with himself, his 
landlady, and the whole world. 

When he awoke the next morning, his natural good sense 
restored him to a better feeling. He perceived the folly and 
unreasonableness of his expectations. Why should others 
deprive themselves of innocent enjoyments to please or indulge 
his misanthropic whims ? 11 Surely,” he added with a sigh, 
u this world is often sad enough for many of us; let a few at 
least find some pleasure in it.” 

When Madame Bernard, therefore, came to light his fire 
and prepare his breakfast, he received her quite cheerfully : 
and after making a few general remarks, candidly expressed 


SEVEN YEARS. 


231 


his regret at having said anything on the preceding evening 
that might have damped the enjoyments of herself and her 
guests. 

With much simplicity and earnestness, Madame Bernard 
assured him he need not trouble himself on that account; that 
he had not at all destroyed their pleasure; and indeed that 
they had never been merrier than after he was gone. 

Marlow was disconcerted for a moment, but he soon rallied : 
and being determined to do his duty to the end, continued his 
discourse, and very clearly proved to his landlady that both 
she and her husband could not possibly do a wiser thing than 
to enjoy themselves occasionally with their friends. 

Madame Bernard, who perhaps knew all this as well as 
he did, and, maybe, too, a good deal better, heard him very 
patiently, and when he had done, merely observed—“Why, 
sir, as my husband has to work hard all the week, and is not 
very strong, it is only fair he should get a bit of amusement 
now' and then.” 

“ Very right,” approvingly replied Marlow; “but might 
you not select your guests more judiciously? Now, that 
Monsieur Dezille and his comedy seemed to be rather absurd.” 

“ Well, sir, we are ignorant people, that do not understand 
much of these matters; but Joseph says he likes to hear 
Monsieur Dezille talk, because, as he knows more than him¬ 
self, he can always gather something useful from him. Then 
he and his wife are rather nice people, and, to tell you the truth, 
sir, rather poor, though too proud to own it. Yet as I knew 
that Madame Dezille had had no fire these last three days, cold 
as they have been, I asked her to come in to teach one of the 
girls how to embroider purses, which she, poor soul, very will¬ 
ingly did, and warmed herself at the same time. Then I 
said how glad Bernard would be to hear her husband’s comedy. 
So he came too; and as I thought he sometimes went without 
his supper, I made a few pancakes, and Bernard got a bottle 
or two of cider. It did not cost much after all—only two 
francs—and it made us all glad and merry, and they never 
suspected anything.” 

Though he had always thought his landlady a simple, good- 
natured sort of woman, Marlow had by no means been pre¬ 
pared for the delicacy of feeling this last trait betrayed. For 
a while he remained silent, but determined to make another 
objection. He observed—“ But vdiat motive could induce you 
to invite that cross old man and his abominable violin ? ” 

“ Ah sir,” reproachfully exclaimed Madame Bernard, “how 


232 


SEVEN YEARS. 


sorry I was when you abused that violin so ! He values it 
above anything else ; and no wonder too, for it belonged to his 
only brother, who died many years ago ; and he often talks of 
that brother, and says, with tears in his eyes, how beautifully 
he played upon that very instrument; and indeed he seems 
to think it is the only violin upon earth; but that is only 
because it was his brother’s. I can assure you, Monsieur, that 
'he is not so crabbed as he seems. He is a tender-hearted 
creature. I have looked into his room, and actually seen him 
sobbing, as if his heart were like to break, over that poor vio¬ 
lin. What an affectionate remembrance he must have of his 
brother ! ” 

“ Well, if such is the case, I am really sorry to have ever 
said a word against it,” replied Marlow, rather moved; “ but 
I thought this old gentleman was no favourite of yours, and in¬ 
deed he seems to be cross and surly enough.” 

u Well, sir,” said Madame Bernard, in a grave and some¬ 
what penitent tone, “ we should never judge by appearances, 
for he is not half so cross as I thought him, though I should 
never have known it but for Madame Dezille ; and this is one 
of the very things which, though I did not find it out till before 
yesterday, made me like her still more. Would you believe 
it, sir, both she and her husband have, for the whole winter, 
been attending on that old man, who is almost always laid up 
with the gout, and is no friend or relation of ^theirs ? And 
they say that, with all his crossness, he is very kind, and 
wanted to do something for them out of pure gratitude; but 
seeing that he was almost as poor as themselves, they refused, 
and that was what made him so ill-tempered with Monsieur 
Dezille last night, though I believe they were friends again 
long before they parted. And you now see, sir, how it was we 
could not do less than invite him also.” 

As Marlow had nothing to reply, and did not seem inclined 
for further conversation, Madame Bernard soon left him to his 
own reflections, little suspecting that it was her discourse which 
caused this deep fit of musing. “ Well,” thought he, when he 
was alone, “ how little I knew of all the genuine kindness, 
charity, and feeling which lay concealed under the homely as¬ 
pect of those worthy people, whose innocent enjoyment I en¬ 
deavoured to destroy. Now that I think better of it, I no 
longer wonder at their cheerful, happy faces. But how pure 
and blessed,” he added with a sigh, “ is that dower of a con¬ 
tented spirit—the art of enjoyment—since it can shed such 
genuine delight over what were otherwise insipid and flat, and 


SEVEN YEARS. 


233 


invest an old fiddle, a bottle of cider, and a few chestnuts and 
pancakes, with more real pleasure than is to be found in these 
splendid entertainments where guests only bring with them the 
weariness and ennui of worldly minds ! ” 

Frank Marlow was a cured man. We will not assert that 
it was exclusively Madame Bernard’s party, and the thoughts 
it awakened, which wrought a reformation in his mind. He 
was already tired of inactivity, and a few letters from a friend 
in England had contributed to arouse him from his morbid 
lethargy. He saw that all along it had been himself, not the 
world, which was to blame—that the earth may become a 
scene of gloom or gaiety, misery or happiness, just as we use 
its bounties. In less than three weeks he announced to his 
landlady his intention of returning home. She heard him with 
regret : and as he had in the mean while effected a reconcilia¬ 
tion with Monsieur Dezille and the owner of the violin, every¬ 
body was truly sorry to part from him. Marlow himself felt 
some emotion when the hour came; but England, which was 
before him, and the hope of retrieving his fallen fortunes, soon 
banished the transient feeling. 

He brought energy and perseverance to his new task, and 
in a few years was in as prosperous circumstances as ever. All 
his former extravagance seemed to have vanished; he did not, 
however, fall into the contrary extreme, but always entertained 
his friends in a manner suitable to his station in life ; still they 
frequently heard him observe, that the most pleasant party he 
had ever seen had only cost one shilling and eightpence; 
“ though to be sure,” he added with a smile, “ what was wanting 
in good cheer, was amply made up by kind hearts, contented 
spirits, and the genuine art of enjoyment.” 

Should the reader feel any wish to learn the fate of the 
Bernards and their neighbours, we can only inform him that 
they are still residing in the same house. Monsieur Dezille’s 
comedy has not yet been acted, but it continues, with old Mon¬ 
sieur Bicord’s violin, to form the delight of the whole landing. 
Upon the whole, they are much in the same state as when 
Frank Marlow saw them; neither richer nor poorer, but as 
merry and good-humoured as ever. 


234 


SEVEN YEARS. 




A 


THE LITTLE DANCING-MASTEE. 

Polydore Jasmin was, as lie said himself, “ a professor of 
the Terpsichorean art; ” in plainer terms, a dancing-master. 
Being a short-legged, dumpy little man, nature did not seem 
to have intended him for any extraordinary feats of agility; 
but an irresistible vocation had enabled him to overcome every 
physical obstacle. As he was a married man, and the father of 
seven children, he remained poor in spite of the almost super¬ 
natural industry with which he applied himself to his art both 
day and night. Instead of owning a handsome and fashionably 
situated salon de danse , he was allowed to waste his talents in 
a damp cellar-like room, looking on the yard of a dingy house 
in the Hue St. Denis, where he daily revealed the mysteries of 
the light muse to the smart shopmen and pretty grisettes of the 
neighbourhood. 

Still, Monsieur Jasmin was a contented, and even a happy 
man: the lightness and buoyancy of his profession seemed to 
have passed into his heart. His manners, however, were very 
grave and dignified ; and when he danced, he became so solemn 
that his pupils, like the courtiers of the Grand Monarque on a 
similar occasion, remained struck with awe at the imposing 
sight. To say the truth, M. Jasmin had a respect for dancing; 
he looked upon it as a very grave affair, and could not bear to 
hear it lightly spoken of, or turned into ridicule. If anything 
could tend to increase M. Jasmin’s natural equanimity of tem¬ 
per, it must have been the high opinion he entertained of his 
art, his own person, and his family. Madame Polydore Jasmin, 
according to him, possessed the gift of eternal youth; at least 
he solemnly declared—and he believed it—that she had not 
altered in the least since the day of their first meeting, when 
her coal black eyes, rosy cheeks, and pleasant smile first won 
his tender heart. Others averred that cares and anxiety had 
rendered the poor woman pale and thin, and that she was only 
the shadow of her former self; but of this he saw and knew 
nothing, and his love for his wife remained unabated. She was 
a good, simple-hearted woman, well deserving of affection, and 
entirely devoted to her family: her love and veneration for her 
husband were unbounded: she entertained, moreover, the 
deepest respect for dancing, and looked upon M. Jasmin as the 


SEVEN YEARS. 


235 


high priest of that mysterious art. The children of this wor¬ 
thy couple were like their parents—contented, good-humoured, 
and simple-hearted : their education was very carefully attended 
to; for there had not been danced a pas in France since the 
days of Louis XIV. with which they were not thoroughly 
acquainted. 

Amongst the few acquaintances of M. and Madame Jas¬ 
min, who were rather shy and reserved, was one of their neigh¬ 
bours, M. Bourreux, a disagreeable, satirical old man, who 
had no children, was thought to be in easy circumstances, con¬ 
tinually talked about making his will, and seemed privileged 
to say whatever he pleased, without giving oifence to any of 
the families which he daily visited—teasing the children, an¬ 
noying the parents, and turning the household arrangements 
into ridicule, during the whole time of his stay. On a fine 
summer evening this amiable individual condescended to pay 
M. Jasmin a visit. To the dancing-master’s surprise, he was 
unusually gracious. The high polish of Madame Jasmin’s 
bees’-waxed floors seemed to transport him with admiration: 
by an adroit transition he contrived to connect the subject with 
M. Jasmin’s proficiency in his art; and he was so eloquent on 
both topics, that the heart of the dancing-master’s wife swelled 
with pride, whilst equally gratifying feelings agitated her hus¬ 
band. In his sudden fit of amiability, M. Bourreux even at¬ 
tempted to pat the heads of the children, and say a few kind 
words, but they all drew away with instinctive mistrust. 
When his stay had been somewhat prolonged, M. Bourreux 
rose to depart; but as though suddenly recollecting himself, 
he turned towards his host, and with a bland smile observed, 
u My dear Monsieur Jasmin, allow me to congratulate you 
before I go; I am indeed delighted.” 

M. Jasmin opened his eyes very wide, and seemed be¬ 
wildered ; his wife looked at him as though for an explanation. 
M. Bourreux continued : “ It is perhaps indiscreet in me to 
mention this so early ; but I really could not command my 
feelings.” 

The dancing-master and his wife exchanged glances: 
“ What could this mean ? ” 

“ What ! ” exclaimed the visitor; 11 can you be unac¬ 
quainted with an event concerning you so nearly ? Nay, 
then, let me have the pleasure—” And without finishing the 
sentence, he drew a newspaper from his pocket, and handed it 
with a smile to M. Jasmin. The dancing-master mechanically 
glanced over the paragraph pointed out by M. Bourreux; but 


t 


236 SEVEN YEARS. 

scarcely had he read a few lines, when he became very pale, 
and sank down on a seat. 

“ What is the matter, Polydore ? 55 cried the alarmed 
Madame Jasmin. 

“ ’Tis only the effect of joy,” coolly remarked M. Bour- 
reux ; “ he will soon come round.” 

But instead of coming round, M. Jasmin betrayed increas¬ 
ing emotion; his little grey eyes twinkled with tears; and 
mournfully shaking his head, he exclaimed in a broken tone, 
“ Poor fellow ! I taught him how to dance : is it now come 
to this ? ” and with another shake of the head, expressive of 
the deepest melancholy, he allowed the paper to fall to the 
ground. Madame Jasmin hastily picked it up, looked over 
the paragraph which had so affected her husband, and fairly 
burst into tears, whilst M. Bourreux eyed them both with un¬ 
disguised contempt. Not to keep the reader in suspense, we 
will state that the paper so officiously produced by M. Bour¬ 
reux announced the death of Jacques Jasmin, merchant of 
New Orleans, where he had died of the yellow fever, on the 
eve of returning to his native country with a large fortune. 
As the deceased was a cousin of M. Jasmin, of whom he had 
not heard for several years, the golden consequences of this 
event chie% struck M. Bourreux, who, when he saw the pal¬ 
try light in which his friends beheld it, began to look upon 
them as more shallow and foolish beings than he had till then 
thought them to be. M. and Madame Jasmin were in the 
mean while relieving their grief by enumerating, as is usual in 
such cases, the manifold virtues of the deceased. 

u So good-tempered ! ” exclaimed Madame. 

“ So willing to learn too ! ” observed her husband. 

“ The newspaper says he died immensely rich,” urged M. 
Bourreux. 

“ He deserved it,” warmly cried M. Jasmin. “ Poor lad ! 
when he went away, ten years back, to seek his fortune, ‘ Trust 
me, cousin Jasmin, 5 says he, ‘ I shall make my way; and hon¬ 
estly too, 5 he added proudly; for he was proud, poor Jacques 
was.” 

“ Ay, and don’t you recollect how, when you slipped the 
piece of gold into his little trunk, he pressed your hand, and 
could not speak?” observed Madame Jasmin, wiping her 
eyes. 

“ I declare,” replied her husband with surprise, “ I had 
forgotten all about that. Well, he was welcome to it; but it 
was a loan, not a gift; and indeed, if ever his children come 


SEVEN YEARS. 


237 


to France, I shall remind them, in a polite manner of course, 
of the debt.” 

“ Your cousin was never married, and has left no chil¬ 
dren,” sharply said M. Bourreux. 

“Well, I might have known that,” replied M. Jasmin; 
“ for when he was going away, ‘ Cousin,’ says he, 1 1 shall 
never marry but a pretty lively Frenchwoman like Madame 
Jasmin.’ ” Here the dancing-master tenderly glanced towards 
his wife, who positively blushed. 

Well, but do you also know,” impatiently exclaimed M. 
Bourreux, “ that your cousin has left no will ? ” 

“ What about it ? ” calmly asked M. Jasmin. 

“ What about it ? ” almost indignantly echoed his neigh¬ 
bour ; “ why, if he died childless, and without making a will, 
does it not follow that his large fortune—two millions of 
francs, the newspapers say—must be divided amongst his re¬ 
lations ? ” 

M. Jasmin opened and rolled his eyes in a manner which 
showed that the thought now occurred to him for the first 
time. For awhile he seemed lost in thought, then incredu¬ 
lously exclaimed it could not be ; a sentiment in which his wife 
fully concurred. On hearing this, M. Bourreux became in¬ 
dignant, then satirical, and at last, by a natural transition, 
quite sentimental. He begged of his dear friends to believe 
him—what interest had he in deceiving them ? The dancing- 
master and his wife at length allowed themselves to be con¬ 
vinced ; and after giving a few more tears to the memory of 
Jacques, they agreed that the intelligence must be true. M. 
Bourreux having thus accomplished his errand, departed, 
leaving them to their own reflections. These were dismal 
enough ; and what with their grief for the death of Jacques 
Jasmin, and their joy of becoming at once so rich, the worthy 
couple spent, upon the whole, a rather miserable evening. 

By the next morning they were more composed, and had 
settled how to act. The whole family immediately went into 
mourning, for what less could be'done to honour the memory of 
a man who left them a fortune ? Besides this, M. Jasmin had 
to write to his Norman cousin, M. Legro3, who was the only 
other heir of the deceased. The next and still more impor¬ 
tant step, was to remove from their present “ low neighbour¬ 
hood, to a more convenient residence.” So at least said 
Madame Jasmin, who had a secret taste for grandeur. 

“ And Monsieur Jasmin’s pupils ? ” objected some prudent 
neighbours. 


238 


SEVEN YE AES. 


Madame Jasmin assumed a remote look, and hinted that 
her husband had thoughts of giving up teaching. “ He thinks 
it fair to beginners,” she said kindly, “ and though he may be 
induced to take a few pupils, it will be more for his own 
amusement than for profit.” 

The prudent neighbours withdrew in high dudgeon. u Oh ! 
that was it, was it ? the Jasmins were getting too grand for 
the Rue St. Denis. Very well, very well, time would show.” 

But Madame Jasmin was reckless, ambition had invaded 
her heart, and for once that eager passion held sovereign em¬ 
pire in that hitherto humble region. A fashionable apartment 
in the Chaussee d’Antin was found and at once taken posses¬ 
sion of. A few hundred francs, the careful savings of years, 
were lavishly spent on the necessary changes of furniture. 
“ The rent was horribly dear,” Madame Jasmin confessed, but 
why deny it ? she took secret pleasure in its dearness,—there 
is a comfort which the simple and ignorant do not suspect in 
the dearness of things. “ It is dear,” there is the pity, “ but 
I can actually squander ail that money,” there is the comfort; 
the soothing thought. 

This fashionable apartment nominally consisted in four 
rooms, but was really all salon , every other convenience being 
sacrificed to that one room. The kitchen was a square hole, 
where daylight had never penetrated; the dining-room could 
hold only about four full-grown persons at a time; and al¬ 
though the salon or drawing-room was handsome and well-pro¬ 
portioned, it unfortunately happened that the only spot in 
which the sofa could possibly be put, was precisely against the 
only door that led into the bed-room. This door, which would 
otherwise have spoiled the symmetry of the room, was supposed 
to be there incognito, and was papered over like the rest of the 
walls, in order to keep up the delusion ; but as the bed-room, 
like the kitchen, had no window, the architect had humanely 
caused a few panes of glass to be inserted into the highest 
portion of the door already mentioned; so that, with a little 
complaisance on the part of visitors, they might be supposed 
to be out of view altogether. 

After a long consultation, M. and Madame Jasmin agreed 
that the sofa must be put against the door, and that, as the 
glass panes fortunately opened and shut like a real window, 
the aperture should serve to introduce them into their sleeping 
apartment. It is true it was somewhat narrow; but, as M. 
Jasmin wisely observed, “ you had only to step upon the sofa, 
pass your head through the opening, and you were sure to come 


SEVEN YE AES. 


239 


down, most probably on the bed, and without being more than 
slightly grazed at the utmost.” Notwithstanding these advan¬ 
tages, the dancing-master and his wife had not been three days 
in their new apartment before they were sick of it. 

“I declare,” piteously exclaimed Madame on the third 
morning, 11 that I can bear this no longer. To get in and out 
of a bed-room in that fashion, and a dozen times a day, is 
enough to exhaust one.” 

“ We shall get accustomed to it in time,” was Monsieur 
Jasmin’s comforting reflection. He was a bright-minded little 
man, and looked at the rosy side of things. 

“ And I say that I cannot bear it,” reiterated the lady 
with some asperity, and as she felt really fatigued, she sat 
down on a chair. Monsieur Jasmin looked perplexed. 

“ What is to be done ? ” he asked, giving his wife a dubi¬ 
ous look. 

“ I really do not know,” she replied, dismally ; “ my mind 
and my cookery are alike bewildered with that black kitchen; 
and if the seven children must be locked up in the dining¬ 
room for fear of soiling the drawing-room paper, I really 
think we might throw them in the Seine at once.” 

Monsieur Jasmin was too kind and indulgent not to feel 
more pity than resentment for this little burst of temper. 

u My dear,” he said, with mild gravity, “ it was your sug¬ 
gestion to lock them up.” 

“ Monsieur Jasmin,” impatiently interrupted his wife, 
“ are you or are you not a rich man % If you are, let us have 
q, better place to live in than this. If you are not, let us go 
back to the Rue St. Denis.” 

“ My dear,” said Monsieur Jasmin, still mildly, but with a 
great increase of gravity, “ I really do not understand you. I 
cannot and I will not go back to the Rue St. Denis. The pupils I 
had there have not chosen to follow me here ; it is not my place 
to return to them. We are virtually separated. With regard 
to your suggestion of taking a larger apartment, I should have 
much pleasure in acceding to it, but for one or two trifling ob¬ 
jections: we are, as you know, rather short of money, and 
though there can be no doubt that a vast fortune will come in 
to us Avith the rapidity usual in such cases, I need not tell 
you, my love, that it has not come yet.” 

Monsieur Jasmin spoke Avith a solemnity Avhich struck re¬ 
pentance in the gentle breast of Madame Jasmin. Tears start¬ 
ed to her eyes, and being an impulsive little Avoman, she rose 
and threAv her arms around the neck of Polydore, Avhom she 


240 


SEVEN YEAES. 


embraced penitently. Monsieur Jasmin bad a soft heart, and 
that dignified composure, which he made a point of preserving, 
was forsaking him fast, when a violent ring at the bell made 
the affectionate little couple start rather abruptly. 

“There, my dear,” said Monsieur Jasmin, with a pleasant 
smile, “ compose yourself, that ring brings good news.” 

He went and opened. 

Before him stood a short thick-set man in a great coat and 
comforter, and with an enormous carpet bag in his right 
hand ; behind the short man rose a tall and thin lady, who 
looked strung with parcels and baskets, and behind her again 
appeared two round, dumpy, burly boys, each carrying a 
band-box. 

Morisieur Jasmin opened his mouth and eyes, and could 
not speak. He had recognised his Norman cousin, Monsieur 
Legros; the tall lady must be Madame Legros, and the two 
boys, Monsieur Legros’s two sons ; the extent of the forth¬ 
coming calamity bewildered him. 

“ Quite well, thank you,” said Monsieur Legros, answering 
a question Monsieur Jasmin had not put. “ Come in Alex¬ 
andrine, come in, boys.” 

And they actually entered the dining room, reckless of 
the fearful way in which they filled the place. 

Monsieur Legros sat down, took off his hat and comforter, 
wiped his forehead, and having informed his wife and sons 
to make themselves at home, he turned to his cousin Polydore, 
and winking shrewdly, he laid his forefinger on the side of his 
nose, and emphatically said, “Well.” 

“ I do not understand,” said Jasmin, watching with an¬ 
guish the proceedings of Madame Legros, who was slowly un¬ 
stringing her parcels. 

“ You do not understand! ” echoed Monsieur Legros; 
“ why, sir, I mean what news about the business that brings 
us here ? ” 

“ None as yet,” answered Monsieur Jasmin. 

“ None,” echoed M. Legros with a frown, and as though 
he strongly suspected his cousin of having fraudulently ab¬ 
stracted the two millions for his own benefit. “Well, do you 
know,” he continued, with a look meant to be particularly 
cutting in case M. Jasmin was guilty—“ do you know, I think 
this very strange.” 

“ To say the truth, so do I,” ingenuously replied the 
dancing-master. 

M. Legros coughed doubtfully and in a manner to show 


SEVEN YEARS, 


241 


that, for the present, he would not decide on so grave an 
affair; but that he would, nevertheless, keep his eye on 
Jasmin. 

“ In the mean while,” he added, following aloud his train 
of thought, “ let us make ourselves at home. I knew that 
living in hotels is horribly dear,” pursued M. Legros, taking 
off his great coat, “ so I have resolved to give you, cousin 
Jasmin, a proof of my friendship by boarding and lodging 
with you.” 

“We have very little room,” feebly began M. Jasmin. 

“ My dear fellow, do not mention it, no apologies. All 
will do excellently well ; Madame Legros and I can sleep 
here,” said he, rising and looking into the salon, “ the two 
boys will do admirably in your kitchen, wherever it is. A 
few mattresses, feather beds, sheets, and blankets are all we 
require. Ah ! Madame Jasmin, how do you do?” he blandly 
added, as that timid lady, who had taken refuge in the kitchen, 
now appeared with the seven young Jasmins in the rear; 
“ allow me to introduce my wife, Madame Legros. You did 
not expect that petite surprise,” he added, with a knowing 
wink. 

Madame Jasmin confessed faintly that she did not. 

“ Never mind, cousine, it comes all the pleasanter. You 
are, I have no doubt, an excellent cook ; the boys—look up, 
Adolphe, look up, Auguste—and your children will be friends 
in no time, and Jasmin, Madame Legros, and I, shall go out 
sight-seeing, for it is Madame Legros’s first visit to the 
capital.” 

Madame Jasmin looked at her husband, and Monsieur 
Jasmin looked at her, and the kind-hearted, simple-minded 
little couple, unable to frame an ungracious, inhospitable re¬ 
fusal, made the best of a bad bargain, and bade their Norman 
cousins welcome. 

We will not attempt to describe the sufferings M. Jasmin 
and his family had to endure during the first week of the stay 
of their relatives. Matters went on, however, as M. Legros 
had predicted. The unfortunate Madame Jasmin cooked from 
morning till night ; the children agreed or quarrelled as their 
fancy led them; and whichever they did, always made such a 
fearful noise, that the lodger who resided underneath offered 
M. Jasmin a certain sum on condition of his removing instantly, 
which, from a sense of dignity, he refused to do. But the 
worst of it was, that the luckless dancing-master was com¬ 
pelled to show his cousins about, not only over all Paris, but 
11 


242 


SEVEN YEARS. 


also over every portion of the surrounding country that hao 
ever possessed the least celebrity. M. and Madame Legros 
were determined to make the best of their stay. As though 
to increase M. Jasmin’s deep mortification, no tidings whatever 
could be had of Jacques Jasmin’s fortune, a circumstance 
which caused M. Legros to hint, in a dark manner, that he 
strongly suspected the newspaper paragraph of being entirely 
groundless, and that he was not even far from considering his 
cousin as accessory to the fabrication which had been the means 
of involving him in travelling expenses—and all in order to 
gratify M. Jasmin’s selfish wish of enjoying the company of 
himself and his amiable family! M. Jasmin protested such an 
idea had never even entered his mind ; but this of course only 
increased M. Legros’s suspicions. “ But look ye, sir,” he add¬ 
ed in a threatening tone, “ it would be better for you never 
to have made a dupe of me, sir ; for I protest I shall leave 
neither this city nor this house, sir, until I have ascertained 
the truth of the whole affair.” 

This was an awful threat, and M. Jasmin felt it in all its 
force. But the gracious virtue of hospitality had too deep a 
root in the dancing-master’s gentle heart for him to do what 
nine out of ten people would have done in his stead. 

“ No, he could not bid his cousin leave his house, and seek 
himself some other home.” 

“ I am sick of my life with them,” exclaimed Madame 
Jasmin, with a feeble burst of tears. 

“ My dear, I would do anything to please you,” said her 
husband, tenderly, “ but think of our social position ; think of 
my profession! ” 

The honour of dancing was at stake. Madame Jasmin felt 
it, and provided herself with a new dose of patience. 

And so matters went on. Monsieur Legros became more 
and more suspicious, Madame Legros dropped haughty hints, 
the quarrels of the two young Legros’ and the seven young 
Jasmins daily acquired a more bitter and vindictive char¬ 
acter, the sight-seeing nearly wore M. Jasmin off his legs, and 
the feeding of so many people rapidly emptied his pockets, and 
nothing was heard of Jacques Jasmin and his two millions, 
save through the medium of Monsieur Bourreux, who dropped 
in every day to ask “ if the millions were coming ” To which 
Monsieur Jasmin would mildly reply, “not yet,” and Monsieur 
Legros would snarl an angry “ no.” Monsieur Bourreux at first 
appeared annoyed and disappointed ; but he soon grew recon¬ 
ciled to the circumstance; it even seemed to afford him a pe- 


SEVEN YEARS. 


243 


culiar sort of pleasure, as was evident by the chuckle of satis¬ 
faction with which he alluded to it. One morning, when the 
whole family were at breakfast in the drawing-room—the only 
room which could contain them—M. Bourreux made his ap¬ 
pearance at an earlier hour, and with a more agreeable and 
pleasant look than usual. On being asked to partake of the 
morning meal, he readily consented; and whilst Madame Jas¬ 
min was- pouring him out a cup of coffee, cheerfully hummed a 
merry tune. M. Legros opened the conversation by asking if 
there were any news. 

“Why, yes, there are,” answered M. Bourreux, with great 
liveliness ; “ and very good news too. What do you think now 
of your cousin Jacques not being dead? ” 

“Not dead!” echoed M. Legros, laying down his cup in 
indignant astonishment; “ not dead ! ” 

“Yes ; excellent, is it not*?” chuckled M. Bourreux, rub¬ 
bing his hands. “ But perhaps you don’t believe it ? Read 
this, my dear sir—read this! ” and with the utmost complais¬ 
ance he handed a newspaper to M. Legros. The paragraph to 
which he drew his attention merely stated that it was with the 
greatest pleasure the editor announced to the public that the 
merchant of New Orleans whose demise had been so deeply 
lamented a few weeks ago, was still in the enjoyment of excel¬ 
lent health, the report having originated entirely through a 
mistake. As M. Legros read this aloud, M. Jasmin had his 
full benefit of the intelligence. It would be difficult to state 
exactly what the dancing-master’s feelings were: he was rather 
disappointed at the loss of a fortune ; but he w r as still better 
pleased to think that Jacques Jasmin was alive, observing 
aloud, in the simplicity and openness of his heart, that it was 
a great comfort. 

“ And do you call that a comfort, sir ? ” cried M. Legros 
in a rage. “ Do you know, sir,” he continued, scowling upon 
him fearfully, “ that these words would lead me to suspect that 
you have agents in New Orleans by whose means you contrived 
to spread this report? But no! ” he exclaimed, checking him¬ 
self, “I will not believe it; nor will I believe that Jacques 
Jasmin is alive: it is a moral impossibility; and as there is no 
name mentioned in this statement, I am authorised to believe 
either that it is utterly false—a scandalous fabrication—or that 
it does not in any manner relate to my deceased cousin.” 

“ But suppose it is true ? ” observed M. Bourreux. 

“ I will suppose no such thing !” exclaimed the irascible M. 
Legros. 


244 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ Well, but it may be true,” persisted the other ; “ and 1 
ask how you would behave in case your cousin Jacques were tc 
come home unexpectedly ? ” 

“ Sir,” gravely replied M. Legros, “ I should consider my¬ 
self a deeply injured man, and require a compensation ; but 
admitting that my deceased cousin could come home, which I 
consider impossible, I should think myself justified in not 
recognising him, as I have a very faint recollection of his 
person.” 

“ Ah, but I remember him quite well,” here interposed M. 
Jasmin with a knowing look. 

“ I would not recognise him on your authority,” hastily 
exclaimed his cousin; “ indeed I should consider the whole 
affair so extremely suspicious, that T would turn my pretended 
cousin out of doors directly.” 

“ A very prudent course indeed ! ” observed M. Bourreux 
with a sneer. “ But,” continued he, changing the conversa¬ 
tion, “I have more news; and an excellent joke they will 
make too,” he shrewdly added. “ You must know, neighbour,” 
addressing M. Jasmin, “that your old lodgings are let—you 
would never guess to whom? Well, not to keep you in sus¬ 
pense—to a dancing-master, who has now all your scholars ; so 
you see you are fairly in for itand M. Bourreux chuckled 
very merrily at the idea. 

This was pouring oil on M. Legros’s wounded spirit : he 
laughed very long and very loud; so did his wife and his two 
boys. Madame Jasmin made a faint attempt to smile; her 
husband, seeing that his friends enjoyed the joke so much, 
thought it must be a capital one, though he could not exactly 
see where the point of it lay : he therefore laughed as much as 
he could; but his eyes glistened, and his lips quivered, as he 
thought of his seven children, and wondered what he should 
do. 

“Well,” said M. Bourreux, v r ho had finished his breakfast 
by this time, “ now that I have made you so merry and com¬ 
fortable, I think I shall go.” And aw r ay he went vfith a very 
satisfied air. 

Still, it must be confessed that no particular signs of mirth 
or comfort were shown by the individuals whom he left behind 
him. Madame Jasmin had gone into the kitchen to cry : 
Madame Legros seemed to think that she had been mortally 
offended by her cousins, for she scarcely deigned to look upon 
them ; her husband, who believed more in the truth of the 
newspaper paragraph than he chose to confess, was exceedingly 


SEVEN YEAKS. 


245 


snarlish and ill-tempered; M. Jasmin was overwhelmed by 
the news of the rival dancing-master: a reputation of twenty 
years’ standing had been overthrown in a moment. After an 
hour’s deep meditation, M. Legros rose, and stating that he 
was going out, asked his wife,to accompany him; in a few 
minutes they walked out, without requesting, as usual, their 
cousin to accompany them. M. Jasmin was not sorry for this ; 
for, to say the truth, he wanted to speak to his wife. When 
they were alone, the children being all stowed away in the 
dining-room, he began pouring his sorrows into her faithful 
bosom, accusing himself of folly, and lamenting his impru¬ 
dence. Madame Jasmin consoled him as well as she could : 
“ he had done everything for the best, and everything might 
yet turn out well.” M. Jasmin was easily comforted ; he tried 
to persuade himself matters were not desperate, and that the 
best thing he could do would be to see about it directly. What 
“ seeing about it ” meant, neither he nor his wife exactly 
knew ; but it must have been something pleasant, for it caused 
them to brighten up immediately. In order to effect this it 
was necessary to dress and go out: the first of these operations 
was not half over when a ring came at the bell. Madame Jas¬ 
min ascertained, by peeping through the keyhole, that it was a 
stranger. The worthy couple were in a terrible dilemma : M. 
Jasmin could not take refuge in the dining-room, for the nine 
children were there fighting as usual; neither could he enter 
the kitchen lest the grease off some of the plates and saucepans 
should contaminate his new suit of clothes ; it was impossible 
for him to remain in the salon , for there was no other place in 
which to receive the stranger: in short, M. Jasmin saw that 
his toilet must be finished in the bed-room. There was no 
time to lose ; so hastily catching up his clothes, he jumped upon 
the sofa, darted through the window, and alighted safely on 
the bed. Scarcely was this delicate operation concluded, when 
the stranger was ushered in by his wife. 

“ Is Monsieur Jasmin at home ?” he inquired. 

“ Yes, sir,” she somewhat hesitatingly replied. 

“ Could I speak with him ? ' 

“ Oh, certainly, in a few minutes,” answered Madame Jas¬ 
min, wondering how ever her husband was to get out. 

“ He is a dancing-master, I believe % ” continued the stran¬ 
ger ; and on being answ r ered in the affirmative, “ Is he usually 
moderate in his terms % ” 

Madame Jasmin was going to answer “ exceedingly so ; ” 
but her husband, who had been extremely fidgctty and ner* 


246 


SEVEN YEARS. 


vous since the beginning of the interview, now thought it 
proper to interfere. Standing on the bed, he therefore thrust 
his head through the window, and coughed gently. The stran¬ 
ger immediately gave a start, and looked up. “ Good morn¬ 
ing, sir,” affably said M. Jasmin; “I believe you want to 
speak to me % ” 

“ You are Monsieur Jasmin, then ? ” observed the stran¬ 
ger, with the greatest gravity. 

M. Jasmin bowed. 

“ And I believe you are a dancing-master % ” 

“ 1 have that honour,” replied M. Jasmin ; “but if we are 
to speak on professional matters, will you allow me—” And 
by an appropriate gesture he indicated his wish to come out. 

“ Oh, by all means ! ” cried the stranger. 

Out accordingly in more senses than one the dancing-mas¬ 
ter did come, performing the awkward feat with truly profes¬ 
sional grace and agility; and, as he was now quite dressed, 
looking very dignified indeed. 

The stranger did not even smile; and when M. Jasmin 
had taken a seat, resumed the conversation as though nothing 
had occurred. After several inquiries, he suddenly asked, 
“ Did you not formerly reside in the Rue St. Denis ? ” 
When M. Jasmin had answered in the affirmative, the stran¬ 
ger dryly observed he thought it was a great pity he had 
ever left that neighbourhood. This mysterious speech led the 
dancing-master to conclude that his visitor resided in that 
quarter himself; and as, from the nature of his questions, he 
looked upon him in the light of a future pupil, he began to 
feel nervously alive to the danger of losing him beforehand. 

“ Ah ! sir,” said he, sadly shaking his head, “ it w r as indeed 
a melancholy event that brought me here ! ” And as though 
he had known him for years, he began relating to his visitor 
how he had learned the death of Jacques Jasmin, and had been 
induced to remove to his present lodgings. “ Poor fellow,” 
he added with glistening eyes, “ I taught him how to dance!— 
poor Jacques ! But there is yet hope,” said he, checking him¬ 
self; “ yes, sir, there is yet hope : cousin Legros says he could 
not recognise him, but I am sure I should. I have him even 
now in my mind’s eye—a tall, good-looking young man; taller 
and younger than you, sir, a good bit, with darker hair too, 
and more colour. Oh, I should know him instantly ! ” 

“Well,” said the stranger rather ironically, “ if your cousin 
is alive, what becomes of vour fortune ? ” 

“ Sir, I will not think of that,” manfully replied M. Jas- 


SEVEN YEARS. 


247 


min ; “it is his, not mine. I confess that I shall feel sorry to 
have ever heard of his death, as this has been the cause of a 
few disagreeable circumstances; but I shall feel still more 
pleased, sir, to hear that he is alive. But really there is quite 
enough of this. I believe you wished to speak to me on pro¬ 
fessional matters: my terms are very moderate,” he added, 
with an insinuating smile. 

The stranger looked embarrassed. “ Why, to say the 
truth ”—he began, and then paused hesitatingly. 

As M. Jasmin was wondering what this could mean, the 
drawing-room door opened, and M. Legros majestically stalked 
in. Without regarding the presence of the stranger, who, on 
seeing him, discreetly retired to the other end of the room, he 
indignantly exclaimed, “ Well, sir, I am satisfied now; 1 know 
everything. Yes, sir,” he fiercely continued, “ I have been 
making inquiries, and have actually learned that Jacques Jas¬ 
min, or rather an impostor, taking the name of my deceased 
and respected relative, has been seen this very morning in the 
Rue St. Denis inquiring after you ! ” 

“ Thank God for it! ” fervently exclaimed the dancing- 
master. “ He is then alive and well, and Monsieur Bourreux 
was right.” 

“ Sir,” said his cousin, with a glance of withering con¬ 
tempt, “ you are mad, wretchedly insane; if I had my will, 
you should be sent to Charenton [the Parisian Bedlam]. If 
you were not so blind and deluded, I could prove to you, as 
clearly as two and two make four, that Monsieur Bourreux’s 
intelligence w r as a vile calumny on the character of our late 
cousin, inasmuch as it accused him of the grossest inconsist¬ 
ency—namely, of being dead at one time, and actually alive 
again in less than two weeks afterwards ! Where is the news¬ 
paper ? ” 

Whilst the eye of M. Legros was wandering about the room 
in search of the paper, it chanced to alight on the stranger; 
who was looking at him very fixedly. On meeting his glance, 
M. Legros started back, and even turned pale; but rapidly 
recovering his presence of mind, he folded his arms upon his 
breast, and in a tone and attitude of defiance, exclaimed, 
“ Well, sir, what about it ? I suppose you are going to say 
you are Jacques Jasmin, and that I recognise you ! You are 
mistaken, sir; 1 shall do no such thing: the fact is, I do not 
recognise you ! ” 

“ Jacques ! ” cried M. Jasmin, sinking down on a chair in 
the height of his astonishment. 


248 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ Oh ! ” ironically observed M. Legros ; “ I suppose, sir. 
you recognise him : very good, sir. I have a witness, mind 
you, who has heard you say you would ; so that it is evidently 
quite premeditated ! ” 

“ Jacques! Jacques! can it indeed be you ?” exclaimed 
the dancing-master, without heeding M. Legros. 

Jacques Jasmin—for the strange visitor was no other— 
merely smiled in reply, and warmly shook his relative by the 
hand. M. Polydore Jasmin, with all his simple-heartedness, 
was somewhat of a formalist; and though his eyes were filled 
with tears as he gazed on the altered and sunburnt features of 
his long-lost cousin, he gravely folded him in his arms, and 
kissed him on each cheek, according to the old French fashion, 
which, though wearing away, is still in use among the middle 
and lower classes, and all the partisans of the old school. 

“ Very well, gentlemen, very well,” indignantly exclaimed 
M. Legros, as he witnessed these friendly proceedings with 
very ferocious feelings—“ very well, you might have waited 
to kiss each other until I was gone ! 1 shall soon rid you of 

my presence; but before I go, you shall hear some of my 
mind. You, sir,”—to Jacques—“ I look upon as a swindler, 
seeking to involve your unhappy relatives in expenses ; and 
you, sir,”—to M. Jasmin—“ are a mean hypocrite. I have 
the honour to bid you both good-morning: my innocent 
family shall no longer undergo the contamination of this 
roof.” With this M. Legros walked out of the room in a 
very stately manner. When he stood on the threshold of 
the apartment, however, he turned back to inflict a last blow. 

“ My dear fellow,” said he, smilingly addressing the danc¬ 
ing-master, “ 1 must give you a friendly piece of advice before 
1 go : “ learn to dance, my dear sir—learn to dance ! ” 

M. Jasmin had heard himself called a mean hypocrite; 
and being naturally good-tempered, and inclined to make al¬ 
lowances for the blighted hopes of a disappointed heir, he had 
borne this unjust treatment with the greatest equanimity. 
But there are limits to endurance; and when M. Legros ven¬ 
tured on making the audacious remark above recorded, M. 
Jasmin started to his feet in a fit of ungovernable fury, and 
seized on the object nearest to him, with the firm intention of 
throwing it at M. Legros’s head. Although this object hap¬ 
pened to be a large arm-chair, he lifted it up with the greatest 
ease, and would actually have accomplished his design, but 
for the interference of Jacques Jasmin, and the precipitate re¬ 
treat of M. Legros, who rushed down the stairs in a state of 


SEVEN TEARS. 


249 


great terror, calling out murder all the way, and followed by 
his screaming wife and children. As soon as M. Jasmin’s 
momentary anger had subsided, he felt very much ashamed 
at having so committed himself. He would even have run 
after M. Legros, to apologise for his inhospitable hastiness of 
temper, but the terrified gentleman was already out of sight. 
This made M. Jasmin very uncomfortable. The only reflec¬ 
tion that alleviated his distress was, that what he had done 
was merely in defence of his art, and so far excusable. By 
repeating this a number of times, he confirmed himself in the 
belief that personal feelings had in no manner influenced his 
conduct, and that his art alone had been insulted—an impres¬ 
sion which Jacques Jasmin carefully refrained from removing. 
When the dancing-master’s mind had recovered its usual equa¬ 
nimity, he hastened to introduce his cousin to his wife, who 
had rushed in from her post behind the door (where she had 
been listening till then) on hearing the altercation between M. 
Legros and her husband. Though not quite so astonished as 
M. Jasmin had expected her to be, she was nevertheless very 
hysterical, and might even have fainted away, if the continued 
whining which proceeded from the dining-room had not re¬ 
called her to the necessity of giving the children a good scold¬ 
ing. Jacques Jasmin having, however, interceded for them, 
they were forgiven, and at his request allowed to enter the 
drawing-room immediately. 

We will not dwell upon the manner in which the day— 
which, notwithstanding the many disappointments it brought 
with it, was truly one of happiness—was spent by the family 
of M. Jasmin, nor on the long account which Jacques had to 
give of himself. His history was simple enough, and will be 
easily detailed in a few words. The first of the newspaper 
paragraphs, which had caused such a series of mistakes, turned 
out to be false in every respect. Jacques did not possess two 
millions of francs; he had not much more than one; worse 
still, he was married—to a Frenchwoman, however—and was 
the father of several children, so that all chance of inheriting 
his fortune was at an end ; yet, strange to say, M. Polydore 
Jasmin seemed quite happy on hearing this, and actually 
rubbed his hands with glee. But the most singular portion 
of Jacques Jasmin’s history was, that the piece of gold which 
he had received from his cousin at the epoch of their parting 
had partly been, he said, the means of making his fortune. 
This struck M. Jasmin as one of the most extraordinary cir¬ 
cumstances he had ever heard, and made so deep an impres- 

11 * 


250 


SEVEN YEARS. 


sion oil his imagination, that for a long time afterwards he 
mentioned it to every one he knew as a great natural curi¬ 
osity ; for, he observed, there must have been some virtue in 
the gold: it could not have happened otherwise ; so at least 
says Madame Jasmin. 

As it had never occurred to the simple-minded dancing 
master that he had anything to expect from his rich relative, 
he felt somewhat surprised when, on the second day which 
followed his first visit, Jacques Jasmin hinted that, as he had 
been the involuntary means of causing him to remove from 
his old quarters to a neighbourhood wholly unsuited to his , 
circumstances, he felt it his duty to provide him with new 
lodgings. M. Jasmin would not at first hear of this ; but he 
at length consented, and in a few days he was comfortably 
settled with his family in a large and airy apartment in a part 
of the town equally removed from the commercial Rue St. 
Denis and the fashionable Chaussee d’Antin. Here the danc¬ 
ing-master rapidly found scholars; but as they did not pay 
him very liberally, he might still have repented leaving the 
Rue St. Denis, if it had not occurred to Madame Jacques Jas¬ 
min, who turned out to be a very pretty and amiable woman, 
that, as her family was rapidly increasing, it would be a pru¬ 
dent and economical plan to settle a certain annual sum on 
their cousin, on condition of his engaging to teach his art to 
their children, with all the new pas that might come out. 
Her husband, who is partly suspected of having suggested it, 
immediately submitted this plan to his relative, who, after 
mature deliberation (for although he said nothing about it, the 
clause of the new ])as was to him a great objection), adhered 
to it, and faithfully performed his part of the agreement, 
always being in mortal fear lest some new pas should come 
out without his knowledge, and render him guilty of what in 
his eyes would have been direct perjury. 

It was shortly after these events that M. Jasmin wrote a 
long letter to M. Legros, in which, after tendering the most 
satisfactory apologies, he gave him a detailed account of 
Jacques Jasmin’s marriage, his family, and what he had done 
for him personally. M. Legros, instead of being pacified, 
considered the dancing-master’s epistle as a direct insult on 
his feelings. The only answer he condescended to return to 
it was, that he left Polydore and Jacques .Jasmin to the work¬ 
ings of their own consciences; but that, for his part, he could 
never forgive them. Strange to say, M. Bourreux was glad 
to hear of M. Jasmin’s good fortune : he might have been still 


SEVEN YEARS. 


251 


better pleased, perhaps, had matters turned out otherwise; 
but he was pleased. As it has been discovered, in the 
Rue St. Denis, that his only fortune consists in an annuity 
which must die with him, and that, consequently, he has no 
property to bequeath, his importance is very much dimin¬ 
ished ; but it is pleasant to reflect that his temper is greatly 
improved. 

The Jasmin family are happy and comfortable. M. Jas¬ 
min has been somewhat troubled by the polka mania, but he 
is reconciled to it now. He thinks his wife prettier than ever, 
and idolizes his children. Upon the whole, he may be de¬ 
scribed as that human curiosity—a happy and contented indi¬ 
vidual. He has entirely forgotten that he once thought him¬ 
self rich, though it is said he still remembers the miseries he 
had to endure in his fashionable apartment. 


♦♦♦ 


A SOIREE IN A PORTER’S LODGE. 

There were porters formerly in Paris, now there are not. 
The porter was followed by the concierge, and to the concierge 
has succeeded a nondescript being, male or female, for whom 
there exists as yet no appropriate name. The portress was 
rough, bearish and snappish ; she wore a cotton gown, and a 
cotton kerchief was often set of one side on her head. The 
concierge was more of a bourgeoise, and had a middle-class 
look about her, but the lady who has succeeded to both of 
these is different altogether. She is more of what was for¬ 
merly understood by the fallen word of genteel: she lives on 
the ground-floor in an elegant apartment with sofas and arm¬ 
chairs. She speaks to you in exquisite French, pure and pre¬ 
cise, and she smooths her hands as she talks; she is musical 
too, and has a piano for her children ; her husband has a sol¬ 
dier-like look, and wears something like a bit of red ribbon in 
his button-hole, but he is not often seen. In short, these are not 
porters ; they condescend to guard the gates of a stately man¬ 
sion, and to answer inquiries they keep a charwoman, who 
takes up the letters—but you must give up all claim to pene¬ 
tration, tact, and good breeding, if you attempt to mix up 
these genteel decayed people with the low-bred, loud-tongued^ 
and thoroughly vulgar porters and portresses of old times. 



252 


SEVEN YEAE5. 


There are conservatives everywhere. Some cross people 
regret the old race. They hated them whilst they had them, 
but they are gone, and they weep. 

“ They had their virtues,” they say, “ and at all events 
they were not like these.” 

Well, in those good old times there lived, a few years 
ago, two Parisian porters, who already verged on the con¬ 
cierges. It was agreed on all hands that Monsieur and Mad¬ 
ame Biehonnet were not ordinary porters. They resided in 
the handsomest house of a respectable street of Paris ; their 
lodge, situated on the ground-floor, on the left-hand side of the 
passage, at a convenient distance from the staircase, was large 
and airy, and looked upon the street. Their duties, which 
consisted in attending to the door, and keeping the house 
clean, were unusually light,, and very liberally remunerated— 
considering that, like all the members of their worthy class, 
they were lodged rent free, and kept by their landlord and 
the joint contributions of the lodgers in wood and candle-light 
all the year round, without mentioning the presents they reg¬ 
ularly received on New-Year’s Day. In short, M. and Mad¬ 
ame Biehonnet were, as the reader can see, very comfortable 
people in their way ; and they might have been perfectly 
happy, had not an unlucky spirit of ambition taken possession 
of their hearts, and made them resolve to shine, no matter at 
what cost. They gave parties to which the whole neighbour¬ 
hood was invited; and so conspicuous did they render them¬ 
selves, that the lodge of the Bichonnets beeame ere long a 
term synonymous with the focus of porter-scandal and refine¬ 
ment. Need we say the envy, the ridicule, the heart-burnings, 
the tittle-tattle they raised around them 1 They lived in hot 
water, and enjoyed it. “ The fate of genius, my love,” said 
Monsieur Biehonnet, rubbing his hands, and addressing Mad¬ 
ame Biehonnet, “ the distinguishing mark of our superiority 
over the common and vulgar herd.” 

“ I know they all hate me,” murmured Madame Bichon- 

net. 

“ Ha, ha,” chuckled Monsieur Biehonnet, “ I like it; they 
hated Napoleon, too, but he made them quake ! Let them— 
let them ! ” 

For be it said en passant, it is quite an error to suppose 
that every one likes being loved. Love is sweet, but to some 
tempers hatred is far sweeter. To Monsieur Biehonnet it was 
an acknowledgment of superiority: to Madame Biehonnet it 
was a comfortable soothing proof of the badness of the world 


SEVEN TEARS. 


253 


and the treachery of friends ; but it is time to describe this 
remarkable couple. 

Like many illustrious individuals, the porter and his wife 
did not, however, differ greatly from the common race of 
mortals. Madame Bichonnet was a tall, muscular, raw-boned 
woman, whose florid complexion beamed with health, but who 
was, nevertheless, in a very delicate state ; for, as she fre¬ 
quently assured her lodgers and friends in a low, languishing 
tone, “ she knew she was in a deep decline, and had already 
given up all worldly thoughts.” M. Bichonnet was a thin, 
tan-skinned little man, with a bright, restless, brown eye, and 
a highly pragmatical and consequential eye-brow. He seldom 
spoke, but the little he did say, was all concerning his rank 
and importance in society. lie had also a few profound ideas 
on politics, and “ our duties to our fellow-men,” of which he 
occasionally allowed his friends to catch a glimpse; for as 
those ideas were so very deep, they could scarcely be said to 
fathom them. Amongst M. Bichonnet’s favourite notions, was 
the firm belief entertained by him, ever since the year 1830, 
that Louis Philippe had not six months to remain on the 
throne. This assertion, which he made with many mysterious 
nods and hints, had given him, amongst the timid and prudent 
people of the neighbourhood, a reputation of carbonarism. It 
was even strongly suspected by some wise heads that the con¬ 
vivial parties given in his lodge were only banquets offered to 
republicans in disguise. These malicious rumours, did not, 
however, prevent M. and Madame Bichonnet from resolving 
to have a party on Twelfth Night of the year 183-. Accord¬ 
ing to the usual custom, they were to have a cake ; and in the 
earlier part of the evening M. Bichonnet went out to order it 
at the pastry cook’s before the arrival of the guests, leaving 
his wife, or, as he loved to call her, his spouse, alone in the 
lodge, seated in a soft-cushioned arm-chair, opposite the fire, 
and dozing very comfortably ; for, under pretence of making 
up for her bad nights, Madame Bichonnet was always dozing. 
She had not been long alone when her husband came in. Ap¬ 
proaching the fire, he ceremoniously observed, “The night is 
very cold, my dear ; I must beg your leave to keep on my 
hat.” 

M. Bichonnet M r ould never have committed the solecism 
of doing such a thing without his wife’s permission. Madame 
Bichonnet merely nodded assent, and seemed to expect some¬ 
thing else ; but as her husband remained silent, she said, after 
a pause, “ And the cake, my dear l ” 


254 


SEVEN YEAIIS. 


44 The cake is in the oven, my love. I looked at it and 
fastened my eye on the pastry-cook. 4 That is the cake,— 
mind, that is the one,’ I said, 4 that and no other.’ He laid 
his hand on his heart, and I kept my eye upon him. I know 
he hated me just then ; but—but I rather like that.” 

And Monsier Bichonnet stood on the rug with his hands 
behind his back, in the memorable attitude. 

44 Of course it is a good cake 1 ” said Madame Bichonnet, 
opening one eye. 

44 My love! ” said Monsieur Bichonnet, with mild re¬ 
proach ; then he added softly and impressively : 44 it is a 
large, golden-coloured cake.” 

44 Perhaps I shall never live to eat another,” mournfully 
sighed Madame Bichonnet. 44 Will it be here soon 1 ” she 
added, after a pause. 

44 In less than half an hour, my dear.” Another pause. 

44 Will it be quite hot ? ” asked Madame, opening her half¬ 
shut eyes. 

44 Quite hot.” 

The portress muttered something which sounded like a 
hum of satisfaction, and remained silent. In less than half an 
hour the cake arrived, carried by the pastry cook’s boy. 

Monsieur Bichonnet stood and fastened his mesmeric eye 
on the lad, who bore the look like a genuine gamin, that is to 
say, most impudently. The porter was convinced of the 
identity of the cake, and with a lofty wave of the hand dis¬ 
missed the boy. 

44 Go, lad,” he said. 

44 Au revoir, Pere Bichonnet,” was the audacious reply. 

The boy was gone, but Monsieur Bichonnet stood rooted 
to the rug, aghast and mute; a pastry cook’s boy had called 
him 44 Pere Bichonnet.” At length he recovered, and smiled 
at the youthful sally, like a magnanimous Newfoundland who 
disdains to resent the bark of a young cur. 

44 The cake will get cold,” rather snappishly said Madame 
Bichonnet. 

44 My dear, I beg your pardon,” said her husband, with a 
start. 

At once he placed the cake between two earthen dishes 
which had been kept warming for this purpose; and, as Mad¬ 
ame Bichonnet observed, 44 it really looked like a cake you 
might wish to eat on your death-bed.” Some time elapsed, 
and though it was past seven, none of the guests arrived. 
Madame Bichonnet, who sat near the cake, and smelt it, be- 


SEVEN YEARS. 


255 


came very impatient at this unreasonable delay, and in a quer¬ 
ulous tone inquired “ if they were coming ? ” Her husband 
answered he did not know, but that he strongly suspected M. 
and Madame Miroiton, with their young ladies,—he scorned 
the vulgar expression of daughters,—would soon make their 
appearance ; upon which Madame Bichonnet observed, with a 
significant smile, they had done well to invite M. Tourneur 
to come. 

Monsieur and Madame Bichonnet had both a gentle pas¬ 
sion : they were fond of match-making. Monsieur Bichonnet 
said “ he felt it was a duty he owed to his fellow-men.” Mad¬ 
ame Bichonnet never assigned any reason for her liking, but 
when good-natured people repeated to her what other good- 
natured people had said : “ that she liked the wedding-dinner,” 
Madame Bichonnet turned up her eyes and clasped her hands, 
and asked “ how she could think of such things, with one foot 
in the grave 1 ? ” We will not say what was or was not the 
truth, but this we can safely declare : the Bichonnets never 
gave a party without having at the same time some matri¬ 
monial campaign in view. 

On this occasion the person for whose conjugal felicity 
they felt so lively an interest was a young shoemaker, M. Tour¬ 
neur, who had recently settled in the street, and whose hand¬ 
some shop was precisely opposite the window of the lodge. 
Antoine Tourneur was not yet a rich man, but his business 
promised well ; his character was irreproachable, and though 
lie could not exactly be termed handsome, good temper was 
written on his frank open features. He had, moreover, that 
smart, tidy look so characteristic of the Parisian journeyman. 
Indeed, Madame Bichonnet averred, that of all the shoemakers 
who met at Montmartre on St. Crispin’s day—their yearly 
festival—he undoubtedly cut the most gallant figure; and 
that the dark mustache which he wore, notwithstanding his 
peaceful avocation, was perfectly irresistible. It is true that, 
though possessed of those advantages, Antoine Tourneur had 
not expressed to Madame Bichonnet the least wish for a wife; 
but as she concluded that he wanted one, she resolved to pro¬ 
vide him with one without delay. Fortunately for her pur¬ 
pose, she found two ladies—in the street too—who seemed 
quite willing to enter into her views. Perhaps it will be 
objected that one lady was enough for the purpose; but the 
prudent portress was of another opinion ; she thought that if 
one did not suit, the other might; and that, in all cases, they 
would set one another off. This had been her plan hitherto ; 


256 


SEVEN YEARS. 


and, to say the truth, she had vast experience in those mat 
ters. 

The eldest of those ladies—both of whom were well known 
to Tourneur, whose customers they were—v T as Mademoiselle 
Ursule, the staymaker, who lived next door to him. She was, 
according to her own assertion, twenty-five years of age ; but 
her features—without speaking of common report, which said 
ten—assigned her at least six or seven more summers. She 
was thin and withered-looking; she dressed very richly and 
tastily ; and there w r as certainly nothing vulgar about her. 
It v r as reported that she had money in the bank ; and this, as 
Mademoiselle Miroiton, her rival, spitefully observed, was 
her only attraction. It was seemingly a powerful one, for it 
had enabled her to refuse several good offers of marriage. 
Mademoiselle Miroiton, w 7 ho w 7 as a dressmaker, and a daugh¬ 
ter of one of the neighbouring porters, had no money like 
Mademoiselle Ursule ; but she was a good figure, had a bril¬ 
liant complexion, a tolerable quantity of glossy dark hair, and 
a sparkling, though rather scornful, black eye; so that, as 
Madame Bichonnet wisely concluded, if Antoine Tourneur 
liked beauty, Mademoiselle Miroiton would do remarkably 
well for him ; whereas, if he preferred wealth, Mademoiselle 
Ursule would be quite the thing. Having first delicately 
sounded the two ladies, and found them very favourably dis¬ 
posed, she next invited them to come and spend with her 
“ The Evening of the Kings,” as Tw r elfth Night is termed, in¬ 
timating to them that Antoine Tourneur would be there, with 
only a few friends. 

Just as Madame Bichonnet’s patience was exhausted, and 
she observed very snappishly that the cake was quite ruined, 
a knock at the door announced the arrival of her expected 
guests. 

Monsieur Bichonnet stretched his arm, and pulled a brown 
string like a bell-rope, and which—as all visitors of Paris 
know—is a sort of magic string, wherewith, without so much 
as stirring from his chair—the French porter raises the lock 
of the ponderous street door, and lets or keeps you in at his 
pleasure. On this occasion Monsieur Bichonnet was magnani¬ 
mous ; he admitted the visitors : they came in rushing, gig¬ 
gling, screaming. Madame Bichonnet turned pale. All the 
Miroitons had come. An Olympic frown gathered on the 
smooth brow of Monsieur Bichonnet, and he drew himself 
up rather stiffly. The Miroitons had taken a liberty. They 


SEVEN YEARS. 257 

had brought all the young Miroitons, who had not been 
asked. 

The glass-door of the lodge flew open; in rushed two 
romping Miroitons of the male sex, and of the ages of seven 
and nine. A prim little girl of twelve followed ; then Mon¬ 
sieur and Madame Miroiton, a corpulent couple, and lastly, 
Mademoiselle Miroiton, who laughed rather loudly at some¬ 
thing Antoine Tourneur was whispering in her ear. 

“ Ah ! how good you are to have all come,” said Madame 
Bichonnet, faintly, for she thought of the size of her cake. 

Madame Miroiton had a sharp temper. 

“ No, we did not all come,” she said shortly, “ poor Jules 
is always sacrificed,”—a stabbing look at her husband,—“ he 
must stay and mind the lodge, poor lamb.” 

u I really do not see why he should,” was the very unex¬ 
pected rejoinder of Monsieur Miroiton. “ My lodgers have 
not behaved so generously on New-Year’s Day, that the 
pleasures of any member of my family should be sacrificed to 
their convenience,” added Monsieur Miroiton, looking round 
impressively. “ Adolphe, go and fetch your brother ; tell him 
to rake out the fire, and extinguish the lamp, and come direct¬ 
ly. Last New-Year’s Day brought me in five francs from 
the first-floor, three from the second, ten and fifty centimes 
from the rest of the house,—total, eighteen francs fifty cen¬ 
times. I put it to the company present, Is the liberty of my 
family to be sacrificed for that miserable sum ? Adolphe, go 
and fetch your brother.” 

Monsieur Miroiton sat down smilingly. Now the irrita¬ 
ting part of this speech was, that it held forth hopes impossible 
to realize, and that Monsieur Miroiton knew it. 

“ Sit down, Adolphe,” said Madame Miroiton, to her 
youngest son. “ Your brother Jules would not come now 
after the affront that has been put upon his feelings.” She 
darted another angry look at her husband, and sat down too. 

This little family-squabble was barely over, when a gentle 
lady-like tap was heard at the glass window of the lodge, and 
Mademoiselle Ursule appeared. She was, as usual, very ele¬ 
gantly attired. 

“ What airs she gives herself! ” wdiispered Mademoiselle 
Miroiton to her sister, who replied with a prim smile of as¬ 
sent. 

“ I hope Mademoiselle Ursule is quite well,” patronizingly 
observed Monsieur Bichonnet. 


258 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ Quite well,” was the stately reply, “ I thank you. It is 
cool this evening.” 

Mademoiselle Ursule sat down, carelessly displayed a deli¬ 
cate cambric pocket-handkerchief, and meaning just then to be 
highly disdainful, she superciliously applied a scent-bottle to 
an aristocratically-shaped nose, and frigidly answered every 
remark dropped by either of her hosts. Matters would not 
have gone on very comfortably had not the remaining guests 
gradually appeared. Madame Bichonnet had asked them to 
fill up the vacant spaces of her tableau, now quite thronged 
with the young Miroitons. These individuals were two lady’s 
maids who resided in the house, and a mysterious melancholy- 
looking young man, who lived nobody knew how, and always 
sang comic songs wherever he was invited. 

When they were all seated, and there was some talk of 
cutting up the cake, Madame Bichonnet perceived a circum¬ 
stance she had hitherto overlooked : there were in all 13 indi¬ 
viduals present. Now amongst Madame Bichonnet’s weak¬ 
nesses was the vulgar belief, that when 13 persons met one of 
them must certainly die within the year. On noticing this 
ominous fact, she therefore gave a very dismal groan, and in¬ 
timated to her friends they need not have any fear, as she was 
certainly the doomed one. Everybody immediately sympa¬ 
thised with her, with the exception of Madame Miroiton, who, 
being a strong-minded woman, loudly asserted that this was a 
weakness she must overcome, and that she would not encour¬ 
age her in it by sending home one of her children. Antoine 
Tourneur gallantly offered to absent himself, but Madame 
Bichonnet would not hear of it. 

“ Bichonnet.” 

“ My love.” 

“ Go and ask Rosine to join us.” 

“ At once, my dear,” replied the obedient Bichonnet, with 
whom to hear was to obey. 

“ Well, what are you moaning for % ” stoutly said Madame 
Miroiton. 

Madame Bichonnet looked at the cake meant for nine peo¬ 
ple, and destined to be eaten by fourteen, and remembering 
the greedy young Miroitons, she thought she had a right to 
moan ; but she desperately replied that nothing ailed her, and 
submitted to fate. 

“ Madame Bichonnet,” here put in Mademoiselle Ursule, 
“ may I ask who is the person M. Bichonnet has gone to 
fetch ? Of course the person is reputable; but still, my dear 


SEVEN YE AES. 


259 


Madame Bichonnet, there are limits, social limits, which every 
one does not feel inclined to transgress, and I should like to 
know who that Rosine is. Not a cook, I hope I ” 

“ Oh ! dear no,” cried Madame Bichonnet, seeming shock¬ 
ed at the bare idea. “ I have a house of cooks ! ” 

“ So coarse ! ” said the lady’s maids. 

“ Rosine is a bonnet-maker,” said Madame Bichonnet; 
“ she lives in one of the attics ; a very nice girl, whom I like 
to encourage.” 

The entrance of Rosine, who came in shrinkingly behind 
M. Bichonnet, precluded any further comments. 

Although Rose was “ a nice girl,” her entrance into the 
lodge was witnessed with anything but pleasure by Made¬ 
moiselle Ursule and the daughter of the Miroitons. The for¬ 
mer, especially, was highly indignant: the idea of associating 
with a bonnet-maker seemed to her perfectly preposterous ; 
and, notwithstanding the beseeching and timid glance which 
the young girl cast towards her, Mademoiselle Ursule imme¬ 
diately set her down for an artful, designing creature, and ap¬ 
plied her scent-bottle to her nose with great contempt. 
Mademoiselle Miroiton was at first equally annoyed ; but on 
noticing the paleness of the new- comer, who was, moreover, in 
deep mourning, she immediately made room for her near her¬ 
self, concluding that the contrast would greatly enhance the 
brilliancy of her own complexion, and the freshness of her 
attire. 

The first impression which Rosine’s appearance was cal¬ 
culated to produce, was not indeed to her advantage. But 
though she might at first be thought plain, few persons who 
examined her closely thought so long. Her features were not 
remarkably regular, but she had a profusion of fair silken 
tresses, which beamed like gold beneath her black crape cap, 
eyes of a deep azure blue, dark eyebrows and eyelashes, and 
a sweet smile and pleasant voice, which rendered her at times 
quite fascinating, notwithstanding the languid and sickly ex¬ 
pression her features had contracted during a life of privation 
and poverty. Having lost her mother a few months back, 
she was now an orphan ; and as she was not a native of Paris, 
she had remained wholly friendless and alone in the great city. 
Fortunately, however, she found some employment in the 
house of a great milliner, who lived in the street; and al¬ 
though she had to toil almost constantly, in order to earn 
enough for her support, she was never heard to repine or to 
complain. 


260 


SEVEN YEARS. 


A gentle, complying temper, that made her reluctant to 
utter the unpleasant word “ no,” had, spite her secret reluc¬ 
tance, induced her to accede to M. Bichonnet’s request, and to 
join the party in the lodge. When the guests had resumed 
their seats, and the lodge door had once more enclosed them 
all in an atmosphere of warmth and comfort, Antoine Tour¬ 
neur, looking round him, said : 

“ There are two bottles of champagne here: I volunteer 
that we should uncork them.” 

“ Wait! ” anxiously cried Madame Bichonnet, too anxious 
to remember her politeness, “ wait, Monsieur Tourneur, if 
you please. Bichonnet! ” 

“ My love,” replied Monsieur. 

“ Take the key of the first-floor lodgers, if you please.” 

“ I have it, my dear,” said Monsieur Bichonnet, taking 
down one of the keys hanging on a row of pegs. 

“ Open the front door,” pursued Madame, “ enter the 
dining-room, open the buffet; in the right-hand corner you 
will And champagne glasses ; take fourteen and bring them 
down if you please, Bichonnet.” 

“ Yes, my love.” 

Monsieur Bichonnet took a light and departed on his er¬ 
rand ; but he was scarcely gone when he returned empty- 
handed, and lofty indignation beaming on his expressive coun¬ 
tenance. 

“ The dining-room door was locked ! ” he said, impressively 
rolling his eye round on the company. 

“ Locked ! ” said Madame Bichonnet, sitting bolt upright. 

“ Locked ! ” repeated Monsieur, and he sat down. 

“ Can we not manage with tumblers 1 ” suggested Antoine 
Tourneur. 

“ Impossible, Monsieur,” said Madame Bichonnet, “ drink 
champagne out of tumblers ! no, no, I hope we are not come 
to that yet. But what amazes me, is the insolence and dupli¬ 
city of these people. What do they leave the key of the 
outer door for if they lock the inner one ? ” 

“ It is a trap, an insulting trap,” said Monsieur Bichonnet. 

The Miroitons agreed that it was abominable, but suggest¬ 
ed no remedy to this lamentable state of things. One of the 
lady’s maids, seeing that there was some chance off the cham¬ 
pagne remaining in the bottles, for want of the all-important 
glasses, at length hinted that she might perhaps get them from 
their cook, provided an invitation accompanied the request. 
The prospect of a fifteenth partaker of the cake almost upset 


SEVEN YE AES. 


261 


Madame Bichonnet’s equanimity, and Mademoiselle Ursule 
so solemnly protested that she would walk out if a vulgar 
cook came in, that the lady’s maid declared she would get 
the glasses without the invitation, on which errand she accord¬ 
ingly departed, and within ten minutes she returned, bringing 
champagne glasses for the grown-up members of the com¬ 
pany, and liquor glasses for the junior Miroitons. 

“ I see through it,” audibly whispered Madame Miroiton 
to her husband. Madame Bichonnet ignored the remark, and 
Mademoiselle Ursule, restored to good-humour by the non-ap¬ 
pearance of the cook, despatched one of the young Miroitons 
for three dozens of those Rheims biscuits, without which 
orthodox drinkers assert that champagne cannot be drunk. 

In the mean while a great deal of talking went on in differ¬ 
ent parts of the company : M. Bichonnet, who was more than 
usually dignified, conversed in a mysterious tone with M. 
Miroiton, a simple-minded man, discussing the respective 
merits of Thiers and Guizot, and assuring him, in a low, sub¬ 
dued voice, that before six months he might expect to see 
Louis Philippe dethroned. On hearing this piece of intelli¬ 
gence, the pacific M. Miroiton looked uneasily round, and with 
a cough of dismay, inquired of his friend how he had learned 
this. M. Bichonnet gave a mysterious nod, and merely said 
“ he knew it.” 

“ But, my good Monsieur Bichonnet,” urged the alarmed 
Miroiton, “ I hope you have no ill-will against the king h ” 

“ Sir,” solemnly replied Bichonnet, “ I entertain no evil 
sentiment against Louis Philippe; fate has never thrown us to¬ 
gether, and we have, I may say, nothing in common either in 
feelings or opinions; but it is my duty to my fellow-men to 
inform them, when the opportunity occurs, that before six 
months have passed over their heads, he will have ceased to sit 
on the throne of France.” And leaving M. Miroiton in a state 
of unutterable dismay, he turned from him with a mysterious 
glance, as though thinking that enough had been said on the 
subject. 

Whilst this political discussion was going on, Mesdames 
Bichonnet and Miroiton were engaged in informing one another 
of the faults and merits of their respective lodgers. Madame 
Miroiton greatly inveighed against the avariciousness of hers; 
Madame Bichonnet made no similar complaints, but only la¬ 
mented the want of politeness which existed in their conduct 
towards her. 


262 


SEVEN YEAES. 


“They really are not polite,” she added, sighing; “if a 
letter comes they want me to take it up at once.” 

“ Absurd ! ” said Madame Miroiton. 

“ Ridiculous ! ” gently suggested Madame Bichonnet, “ and 
quite useless, for I never do take up letters. I do not on 
principle.” 

“ Quite right.” 

“ Then there is the first-floor lodger. Would you believe 
it, Madame Miroiton, he gets vexed because I read his news¬ 
paper before sending it up to him.” 

Madame Miroiton stared. 

“ A fact, my dear Madame Miroiton, a fact. In short, 
they have all of them gone to such lengths that Monsieur 
Bichonnet and I have been obliged to draw up a little code of 
regulations, of which they each possess a fair copy. Hero is 
ours; and she read aloud : 

“ Firstly.—All lodgers are particularly requested to scrape 
and wipe their shoes before they go up-stairs, that they may not 
give undue trouble to Monsieur Bichonnet. 

“ Secondly.—Lodgers are not allowed to have children, un¬ 
less bom in the house, in which case they shall not be expelled ; 
or to keep dogs, cats, or birds, or to receive visitors accom¬ 
panied by these animals. 

“ Thirdly.—Lodgers are warned not to play or practise on 
any musical instrument whatsoever, under penalty of instant 
dismissal.” 

“ Very judicious,” said Madame Miroiton. 

“ And yet, spite of that,” replied Madame Bichonnet, 
“ there is a piano in the house. How it got in no one knows. 
Bichonnet declares it must have been hoisted up from the 
street; I am convinced it was smuggled in under the aspect 
.of a huge chest of drawers. I never half believed in that big 
chest of drawers; but now that the thing is in we cannot expel 
it; we cannot even discover where it is, as soon as we go to make 
inquiries; in short, it is the misery of our lives. But to re¬ 
sume : 

“Fourthly.—On account of Madame Bichonnet’s delicate 
health lodgers are requested never to stay out later than twelve 
o’clock at night. After that hour M. and Madame Bichonnet 
will feel themselves under the painful necessity of not admit¬ 
ting them. N. B. Lodgers can come in at any hour on paying 
a fine of fifty centimes (five-pence.)” 

On hearing this admirable code, Madame Miroiton sighed, 
find only wished they could have it too ; but their lodgers were 


SEVEN YE AES. 


263 


so restive, they would never agree to it, and Miroiton could 
never be induced to propose it to them. 

“We never propose those things to our lodgers,” supercil¬ 
iously observed Madame Bichonnet. “ We do them, and they 
submit as a matter of course. Bichonnet thinks that the dis¬ 
cipline lodgers undergo from their porters conduces to the 
peace of the state : it breaks them in to the rest. Only one 
thing that we tried did we fail in : we wanted to have an iron 
bar fixed to the open door, so retrenching the space through 
which people pass, that only thin individuals could get in and 
out. We wanted to do away with the basket and parcel nui¬ 
sance. But they got savage ; they applied to a magistrate, 
who would not allow the bar; for once we were conquered.” 

Whilst the two ladies were thus engaged in laying down 
the laws of the social world to which they belonged, the young¬ 
er portion of the company had gathered round Antoine Tour¬ 
neur, whose good-humour rendered him a general favourite. 
The young man who sang the comic songs, and the two lady’s 
maids, whom Madame Bichonnet had invited because they 
were neither young nor pretty, as much as through any other 
motive, listened to his sallies in silence; but the Miroiton part 
of the family were in perfect ecstacies. Mademoiselle Ursule 
was too genteel to seem much amused ; but as her vigilant eye 
noticed that though his discourse was directed towards her and 
Mademoiselle Miroiton, yet his glances more frequently wan¬ 
dered in the direction of Bosine, she began to look very su¬ 
perciliously on the young milliner once more, setting her down 
as an “ artful designing creature.” As somebody said some¬ 
thing about the champagne, which had in the mean while been 
forgotten, Madame Bichonnet proposed to cut up the cake 
first. This was accordingly done, but who was to hand it 
round ? To ask Mademoiselle Miroiton to do so was to offend 
Mademoiselle Ursule, and vice versa. By putting the office on 
Bosine, Madame Bichonnet thought to keep clear of mischief, 
and she accordingly did so. 

Bosine complied with the request, and performed her task 
with mingled modesty and grace, which Mademoiselles Ursule 
and Miroiton, both agreeing for once, internally pronounced 
sad affectation. Antoine was the last person to whom she 
handed his share of the cake, and perhaps for this reason, or 
perhaps because, as Mademoiselle Miroiton now began to 
think, he was engaged in gazing on the young milliner, he 
neglected to examine his portion of the cake, in order to see 


264 


SEVEN YEARS. 


whether it contained the bean always inserted in it, and which 
renders him to whose lot it falls king for the evening. 

The young man who sang the comic songs immediately 
discovered that he had not the bean; the lady’s maids found 
out as much; Madame Miroiton declared she had not got it; 
all her children echoed the words ; M. Bichonnet did not 
speak, not thinking it dignified; and M. Miroiton, because his 
mouth was full. 

“ I suppose Mademoiselle Ursule is queen ? ” ironically ob¬ 
served Mademoiselle Miroiton. 

“ I am not queen,” sharply answered the staymaker, with 
a tone and look which seemed to say she might have been if 
she would. 

Mademoiselle Miroiton coloured, and in a softened tone 
said to Antoine, “ Are you king, Monsieur Tourneur ? ” 

Antoine started, and turning his eyes from Rosine, for the 
first time opened his portion of the cake. No sooner had he 
done so, than the dark bean appeared, enshrined in the yellow 
crust. Immediately a loud cry of “ Tourneur is king ! Long 
live the king ! ” resounded in the lodge. Antoine laughed, 
and bowing, intimated his wish of speaking; but the loyalty 
of his new subjects was not thus easily checked, and the 
Miroiton part of the company especially showed their delight 
by making an unusual noise. When he was at last allowed 
to speak, he returned thanks in a short speech, and concluded 
by drinking the health of all present. No sooner had he 
raised his glass to his lips, than the cries of “ The king drinks ! 
Long live the king ! ” again echoed round. But when this 
first excitement had somewhat subsided, Antoine was re¬ 
quested by Madame Bichonnet to use his privilege, and name 
a queen for the evening. On hearing this, Mademoiselle 
Miroiton looked modestly on her plate, whilst Mademoiselle 
Ursule applied her scent-bottle to her nose. 

“ Ho, ho ! ” continued Madame Bichonnet, with a knowing 
wink, and glancing towards the spot where Mademoiselle 
Miroiton and the staymaker were both seated, so that it could 
not be known precisely to which of the two she meant to 
allude, “ I think I know who will be queen.” 

She paused, struck aghast with astonishment and dismay— 
for Antoine had, with a low bow, placed the bean in the glass 
of Rosine, thus proclaiming her queen for the evening. 

A deep ominous silence followed this daring act. Madame 
Miroiton gazed on Madame Bichonnet with an indignant 
glance, as much as to say, 11 You see it! ” and Madame 


SEVEN YEARS. 


265 


Bichonnet turned up her eyes, and clasped her hands in 
amazement. M. Miroiton did not seem to know what to make 
of it; and M. Bichonnet solemnly shook his head two or three 
times, like one whom nothing can astonish. On perceiving 
Antoine’s meaning, ldosine had coloured deeply, and, by the 
timid deprecating look she cast around, seemed to implore in¬ 
dulgence for her involuntary fault. But the singer of comic 
songs was staring point-blank at the wall; the two lady’s 
maids, who readily took their cue, seemed, by the glances they 
exchanged, to say, “ What a shocking creature ! ” the looks 
of the Miroitons and the Bichonnets were equally stern and 
forbidding. Mademoiselle Miroiton w r as too desperately in¬ 
censed to strive to hide her feelings ; and though Mademoiselle 
Ursule partly triumphed in the mortification suffered by her 
younger and more attractive rival, her whole attitude showed 
the consciousness of injured dignity. Antoine alone looked 
kindly on her, and seemed to resent very much the manner in 
which the object of his choice was treated. The truth was 
that, having perceived the drift of Madame Bichonnet’s hints 
and allusions, he had felt piqued at being disposed of without 
his consent, and would have asked either of the lady’s maids 
to be queen sooner than Mademoiselle Miroiton or Made¬ 
moiselle Ursule. Wishing to relieve Bosine from her embar¬ 
rassment, he drank her health with studied politeness; but 
when he cried out, “ Long live the queen ! ” no voice save M. 
Bichonnet’s. who felt himself bound in honour to reply, 
echoed his. Poor ldosine grew pale, and laid down her un¬ 
tasted glass, whilst Antoine frowned on the silent and rigid 
Miroitons. Willing, however, to make an effort towards con¬ 
ciliation, the young shoemaker said with a smile, addressing 
the company, “ Ladies and gentlemen, let me hope you will 
drink the health of your queen.” 

The melancholy-looking young man who sang the comic 
songs immediately drank a glass of wine, first mattering 
something which might sound as an assent to or a protest 
against the toast, just as the parties were inclined; but no 
one else pledged Antoine. Mademoiselle Miroiton, indeed, 
eyed him with great contempt, yawned audibly, and looking 
at her mother, carelessly observed it was late enough to go 
home. To this Madame Miroiton assented, and rising im¬ 
mediately, helped her daughter to put on her cloak and bonnet 
—for Mademoiselle Miroiton had lately assumed this badge of 
distinction. It was in vain that Madame Bichonnet begged 
of them to stay a little longer; they smiled scornfully in reply 
12 


266 


SEVEN YE AES. 


to all her intreaties ; whilst, heedless of his wife’s indignant 
glance, M. Miroiton, determined to make the best of the little 
time left, hastily gulped down two or three glasses of 
champagne. 

“ Pray, do stay,” urged Madame Bichonnet. 

“No, ma’am, thank you,” dryly answered Mademoiselle 
Miroiton. “ I can assure you, ma’am, we are not blind ; we 
can see very well through your schemes, and those of other 
peojde.” 

“ Yes, indeed we can,” echoed her mother, with a scornful 
toss of the head ; whilst even M. Miroiton, roused at last, and 
having now quite done with the champagne, repeated, “ Ay, 
sir, we can,” addressing M. Bichonnet; and with his wife on 
one side, and his daughter on the other, stalked out of the 
lodge, followed by his children, and closed the street door be¬ 
hind him with a thundering slam. 

When they were gone—she would have scorned to do it 
before-—Mademoiselle Ursule rose; and though she only 
opened her lips to say “ good-night,” the manner in which 
she uttered the words spoke volumes. The singer of comic 
songs, perceiving that his services were no longer necessary, 
departed, under pretence of seeing her home—she lived in the 
house opposite ; and the two lady’s maids took the same op¬ 
portunity of saying something about their mistresses—who were 
both out—wanting them, and left the lodge, where only 
Antoine, Rosine, with the porter and his wife, now remained. 
After their dejjarture, Antoine made several ineffectual at¬ 
tempts to create a little mirth; the Bichonnets were both 
dismally solemn ; and Rosine, who began to fear she had been 
the occasion of a vast deal of mischief, was too ill at ease to 
enjoy herself any longer. Seeing the uselessness of his efforts, 
Antoine at length took leave of his hosts, without taking any 
particular notice of Rosine. 

When he was gone, M. Bichonnet turned towards the 
young milliner, and in a solemn tone began, “ Mademoiselle, 
I feel it is a duty I owe to my fellow-men—” But there was 
something in Rosine’s mild appealing glance which seemed to 
reprove him: he paused, looked embarrassed, and observed in 
a gentler tone, “Well, well, I see you understand me; and so 
—rgood-night.” Rosine made no reply ; but rising somewhat 
proudly, she retired, bitterly regretting having accepted the 
unlucky invitation, which had so disturbed the harmony of the 
evening. 

Several days elapsed, during which nothing of importance 


SEVEN YEARS. 


267 


seemingly occurred. Mademoiselle Ursule, who, since the 
Evening of the Day of the Kings, had taken upon herself the 
office of observing whatever was going on in the street, never¬ 
theless found the opportunity of making several curious and 
interesting remarks. Thus she noticed that, on the Friday 
which followed that memorable evening, Madame Bichonnet, 
notwithstanding the delicate state of her health and the 
severe cold actually left her lodge, and ventured to cross the 
street, in order to enter the abode of the Miroitons; that she 
remained there upwards of an hour; and that, when she left 
at last, her features wore the expression of one highly satisfied 
with the success of a momentous enterprise. Mademoiselle 
Ursule, moreover, perceived that a very unusual agitation pre¬ 
vailed in the porter’s lodge : through some mysterious means 
she even learned that, during the course of the day, several 
secret conferences took place between Madame Bichonnet and 
the cook of the first-floor lodgers. M. Bichonnet himself 
seemed more solemn and dignified than ever. At last the 
important truth came out: the Bichonnets were, on the next 
Sunday, to give a dinner, to which the Miroitons and Antoine 
Tourneur were invited. The mystery was, however, kept up 
until the Saturday afternoon. It then happened that the 
portress let out an inkling of the fact to one of her neigh¬ 
bours, the consequence of which was, that, in less than five 
minutes, Mademosielle Ursule entered the shoemaker’s shop. 

“ Sir,” said she, addressing Antoine Tourneur, who stood 
behind the counter, “ I am in want of a pair of shoes; will 
you take my measure ? ” The young man bowed, and very 
politely led the way to a little back parlour, where the stay- 
maker took a seat, and in a very slow and stately manner gave 
him numberless instructions concerning the size, colour, and 
shape of her chaussure. Although Antoine heard her patiently 
to the end, Mademoiselle Ursule seemed to mistake the nature 
of his feelings, for she observed, “ I see you are in a hurry, 
and I am sorry to detain you; but as I shall be very busy 
next week, and as I shall not see you until the shoes are 
made—” 

“ What! ” interrupted Antoine, “ do we not meet to-mor¬ 
row evening ? ” 

“ Where should we meet, sir? ” asked the staymaker, with 
much seeming surprise. 

“ At Madame Biclionnet’s, of course,” said the } T oung man. 

Mademoiselle Ursule seemed to endeavour to recollect who 
the Bichonnets were ; then, as though suddenly remembering, 


268 


SEVEN YE AES. 


she loftily observed, “ Oh, bless me, no ! I shall spend to-mor 
row at home, sir, with poor dear Rosine.” 

“ And is not Mademoiselle Rosine to be there either ? ” 
eagerly asked Antoine, whose features expressed some disap¬ 
pointment. 

“ Really, Monsieur Tourneur,” sharply observed the spin¬ 
ster staymaker, “ you must have an extraordinary opinion of 
myself and Rosine, to imagine that, after the insults we have 
there endured, we could ever be induced to cross again the 
threshold of Madame Bichonnet’s lodge.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” confusedly answered Antoine; 
11 but when Madame Bichonnet spoke of my meeting pleasant 
company to-morrow, I really thought she meant you.” 

Though somewhat soothed by the compliment, Mademoi¬ 
selle Ursule smiled with unutterable scorn. “ Sir,” she loftily 
said, “ I will not speak of myself; I will speak of Rosine, whom 
Mademoiselle Miroiton has maliciously slandered, for what 
motive I know not ”—Mademoiselle Ursule uttered the words 
in so significant a tone, as to leave no doubt but she was per¬ 
fectly aware of it—“ and whom, but for me, she would have 
deprived of the means of earning her bread.” Antoine looked 
up with astonishment: the staymaker continued—“ Rosine 
works for a great milliner, who resides in the house where 
Mademoiselle Miroiton’s parents are porters. Since the Even¬ 
ing of the Kings, this creature has so contrived her vile in¬ 
sinuations, that Rosine has been refused any more work. See¬ 
ing her pass by the day before yesterday all in tears, I called 
her in, and, as she can fortunately stitch very neatly, engaged 
her to work for me on the instant, so that she shall have work 
in spite of the whole Miroiton brood.” 

“ And has everything really happened as you relate it ? ” 
very gravely asked Antoine. 

“ Exactly so, sir,” dryly replied Mademoiselle Ursule. 
“ Pray do not forget my shoes. Good-day to you. I sup¬ 
pose,” she carelessly added, “ you go to the Bichonnets’ to¬ 
morrow ?” 

Antoine bowed in token of assent; and without seeming 
to notice the smile and glance of contempt which she cast upon 
him, he ceremoniously conducted Mademoiselle Ursule to the 
door. The staymaker went home, sorely puzzled to make out 
the shoemaker’s real intentions, and quite disposed to quarrel 
with him for taking no heed of poor neglected Rosine, and 
dining with those odious Miroitons and Bichonnets; but 
though in such ill-humour, that her first act on entering the 


SEVEN YEARS. 


269 


work-room was to scold Rosine for some imaginary fault, she 
had enough of self-control not to say a word about Antoine 
Tourneur, or the step she had taken. Perhaps the reader will 
feel surprised to see the staymaker now taking part for the 
young girl whom she treated with such contempt on the Even¬ 
ing of the Kings; but Mademoiselle Ursule did not pique 
herself in the least of acting upon logical principles: she 
boasted that she had u strong feelings and lively sensibilities 
—that she was the creature of impulse,’’ &c.—which of course 
explained everything. The truth was that, although, as she 
herself truly asserted, she had never experienced the passion 
of love, she had, however—partly through Madame Bichon- 
net’s hints—begun to think lately that her young neighbour, 
M. Tourneur, might prove an acceptable partner for life. His 
politeness she construed into a deeper feeling, veiled by pro¬ 
found respect; and although she felt no strong affection for 
him, yet there is no knowing to what pity might have led even 
her rather unsusceptible heart, when the rivalry of Mademoi¬ 
selle Miroiton awoke all her jealous feelings, and for the pres¬ 
ent stifled tenderer emotions. 

When Rosine entered the porter’s lodge on the evening of 
the festival, she immediately looked upon her as on another 
rival, and found her artful, designing, &c. It is very likely, 
this impression might never have been'effaced, if Mademoiselle 
Miroiton had not chanced to take precisely the same view of 
the subject; which Mademoiselle Ursule no sooner saw, than 
she immediately perceived that she must have been in the 
wrong. There could be no possible sympathy between her and 
her rival. When she learned the unworthy treatment the 
young milliner had met with from the porter’s daughter, she 
felt highly indignant; and, as much for a feeling of justice, as 
from the wish of annoying Mademoiselle Miroiton, she took 
ner into her employment. As she was naturally kind-hearted, 
the simplicity and gentleness of Rosine soon charmed her; 
and reflecting—for, from his conduct on the Evening of the 
Kings’ festival she began to suspect she might have been de¬ 
ceived in Antoine’s feelings—that she had lived too long single 
to resign herself to the many tribulations of wedded life, and 
that it would be highly imprudent in her to trust herself to the 
fickleness of man, she prudently resolved to discard Antoine 
altogether : a task which she found the easier, that her heart 
had never been in the least affected. But though she might 
be quite willing to give him up for herself, she was anything 
but desirous that Mademoiselle Miroiton should enjoy the 


270 


SEVEN YEARS. 


triumph of supplanting her; indeed, as she had a shocking 
temper, she felt it quite a charity to prevent their union. In 
short, she resolved that it should not be her fault if her rival 
ever became Madame Tourneur. It is true Antoine did not 
seem very deeply smitten; but then there was no knowing 
what arts might be employed. Ah! if he only knew what a 
dear good creature Kosine was; and much prettier than 
Mademoiselle Miroiton too ! There could be no doubt about 
that ! Indeed it was no difficult task: a shockingly vulgar 
creature! She herself, though not quite so fresh perhaps, 
might venture to compare. But even in her thoughts Made¬ 
moiselle Ursule was modest: she hated to speak of her per¬ 
sonal advantages! 

Such being her feelings on this subject, it is no matter of 
wonder that Mademoiselle Ursule should be exceedingly cross, 
when, on the Sunday afternoon, she perceived the Miroitons 
proceeding to the Bichonnets’; but when she actually saw 
Antoine taking the arm of Mademoiselle Miroiton, dressed out 
in all her finery, and who, as she averred, cast a glance of 
ironical triumph on her as she passed by, her anger broke out 
in vehement denunciations against the faithlessness of men in 
general, and Antoine Tourneur’s want of spirit in particular. 
Kosine gently endeavoured to say a few words for the culprit, 
but she was immediately silenced by the indignant staymaker. 

Several days elapsed, and notwithstanding her anxiety on 
this subject, Mademoiselle Ursule could not ascertain how the 
dinner of the Bichonnets had passed. The cook of the first- 
floor lodgers indeed informed her of the number of dishes 
served on the table, but further than this her knowledge did 
not extend, and the triumphant bearing of Mademoiselle 
Miroiton alone left her room to conjecture the issue of this 
important event. Towards the middle of the week, Antoine 
Tourneur brought home Mademoiselle Ursule’s shoes himself. 
The staymaker received him very stiffly in the presence of 
Kosine, whose eyes seemed riveted on her work, and sharply 
observed that the shoes did not fit. Contrary to her expecta¬ 
tion perhaps, Antoine, far from disputing the fact, readily ad¬ 
mitted it, and instantly offered to make her another pair. 
Mademoiselle Ursule, who was taken by surprise, and felt 
somewhat conscience-stricken—for the shoes were, in reality, 
an excellent fit—abruptly replied, that as she wanted them 
for the following Sunday, she must keep them such as they 
were. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


271 


“ You can have the other pair by Saturday morning,” 
calmly replied Antoine. 

Still Mademoiselle Ursule objected; but taking up the 
shoes, the young man showed her so plainly they did not fit, 
that she at length gave up the point, and consented to have the 
other pair made. This being decided, Antoine, who seemed in 
no great hurry to depart, entered into a very animated conver¬ 
sation with Mademoiselle Ursule, and after exchanging a few 
words with Rosine, at length took his leave. 

u Well,” said the staymaker, now greatly mollified, u I must 
confess that, with all his faults, Monsieur Tourneur is really a 
nice young man. And you see, Rosine, what might happen, if 
I only wished for it.” Rosine started, and looked somewhat 
surprised. Misunderstanding her feelings, Mademoiselle Ur¬ 
sule complacently continued : “ Yes, my dear, did I not prefer 

leading a single life, I might be Madame Tourneur; but 
though I may give up this prospect, it is not in order to 
see that odious Mademoiselle Miroiton marry him; and really, 
child, I wonder you did not take more notice of him just now; 
who knows what may happen?” She paused, and nodded 
very significantly. Rut Rosine coloured, and looked unusually 
grave. 

On the following Saturday Antoine called with the shoes, 
which were this time an admirable fit; so at least Mademoi¬ 
selle Ursule said, aud Antoine did not contradict her, although 
he made a longer stay than the last time, and was still more 
lively and pleasant. Rut notwithstanding his indirect attempts 
to enter into a conversation with her, Rosine w r as so silent and 
reserved, in spite of Mademoiselle’s encouraging nods and 
winks, that the staymaker gave her a good scolding when the 
young man was gone—upbraiding her for her prudery, stiffness, 
and so forth. To her reproaches Rosine mildly but firmly an¬ 
swered : 

11 1 will not appear to misunderstand you"; but, with the 
exception of a very simple mark of politeness, what reason has 
Monsieur Tourneur given me to think that he looks upon me 
otherwise than as a stranger ? And he being rich, and I poor, 
what would his opinion be of me if I seemed to think differ¬ 
ently ? ” 

“ Very well, my dear,” bitterly replied her friend; “ see 
him married to Mademoiselle Miroiton, and live and die an 
old maid, if such is your choice.” 

Rosine made no reply, and here the subject was dropped. 
Although the shoes which Antoine had made for Mademoiselle 


SEVEN YEAES. 



Ursule were perhaps the hest shoes that had ever been made 
(so she said at least), they were worn out in an incredibly 
short space of time; the consequence of which was, that she 
had to order another pair. She next discovered that she 
sadly wanted winter boots; then, as spring was coming on, a 
pair of summer ones. She even asserted that Rosine had 
nothing fit to put on her feet; that her shoes were too nar¬ 
row ; that they hurt her; and, in short, that M. Antoine Tour¬ 
neur must take her measure. It w r as in vain for Rosine to 
protest against this ; she was compelled to submit. The con¬ 
sequence of this was, that Antoine, w r ho always made it a point 
—doubtless out of pure politeness—to take the measure and 
bring home the shoes and boots himself to his customers, w ? as 
seldom less than two or three times a-week at Mademoiselle 
Ursule’s house. 

We must now return to M. and Madame Bichonnet, whom 
we have neglected too long. On the evening of the second 
Sunday which followed that, on which they gave the dinner to 
the MiroitonSj they were seated as usual in their lodge, 
Madame Bichonnet dozing in her arm-chair, and her husband 
looking on the fire, and thinking of nothing, or, as he more ele¬ 
gantly expressed it, “ wrapped in profound meditation,” when 
they were suddenly startled by a loud knock at the street-door. 
M. Bichonnet pulled the string placed near him for thispurpose, 
the door opened, and Mademoiselle Ursule show r ed her thin and 
prim countenance at the other side of the glass casement which 
divided the lodge from the passage, and through means of 
which M. Bichonnet could reconnoitre every one v r ho entered 
or left the house. 

“ Is Mademoiselle Rosine at home ? ” she hastily inquired. 
“ Bless me, what shall I do ? ” she continued in a tone of deep 
disappointment, on being answered in the negative. 

“ I believe,” politely answered M. Bichonnet, “ Mademoi¬ 
selle Rosine has gone to vespers.” 

“Oh, dear no,” smilingly replied Mademoiselle Ursule; 
“ she is gone to take a walk with her betrothed ! ” 

“ Her betrothed ! ” echoed the astonished porters. 

“ Yes,” carelessly rejoined the staymaker; “she is to be 
married to Monsieur Antoine Tourneur next Sunday week. 
I wanted to see her, in order to know whether she would have 
her wedding-dress of white tulle or muslin. But I dare say 
the muslin will look best. But bless me, now I think of it, 
she must be at home by this time, and I to stand talking here ! 
Good-night, Monsieur; good-night, Madame Bichonnet.” And 


SEVEN YEARS. 


273 


Mademoiselle Ursule hastened away, with a look of the great¬ 
est consequence, leaving the porters so astonished, that it was 
several minutes before they recovered from the surprise into 
which she had thrown them. 

“ Poor Mademoiselle Miroiton ! ” exclaimed Madame Bi- 
clionnet, clasping her hands, and turning up her eyes, “ I 
thought to have drunk her health at her marriage-dinner be¬ 
fore I died ; but it is all over now ! ” 

“ My dear,” solemnly said M. Bichonnet, “ this is what 
comes of mingling with people beneath you ; this is—” 

“ Nay, Bichonnet,” mildly interrupted his wife, “ Bosine is 
a sweet-tempered girl, and she will really do better for An¬ 
toine than Mademoiselle Miroiton, with her high spirit. I 
daresay if I were to give her something, just a bit of lace, on 
the occasion of her marriage, it would not be thrown away; 
and I should like to see Antoine happily settled before I die. 
I am afraid the ceremony might affect my nerves; though I 
believe I should go, if they were to ask us to the dinner.” 

“ But, my dear, think of Mademoiselle Miroiton,” gravely 
observed her husband. 

“ Beally I don’t care about Mademoiselle Miroiton,” 
sharply replied Madame Bichonnet; “her airs are insupport¬ 
able ; whereas I always liked dear little Bosine.” 

“ I believe, my dear,” solemnly said M. Bichonnet, “ that 
you are in the right. If they ask us, we will go to the dinner. 
To be friendly with them is our greatest duty towards our fel¬ 
low-men.” 

In short, it required very few arguments to convince this 
worthy couple that Antoine Tourneur could not have made a 
better choice than in the person of the modest little milliner, 
whom they henceforth treated with the most flattering distinc¬ 
tion. On the next Sunday-week Bosine and Antoine were 
married, to the triumph of Mademoiselle Ursule, and the de¬ 
spair of Mademoiselle Miroiton. M. and Madame Bichonnet, 
who were amongst the guests, were delighted with the whole 
affair; which, indeed, they asserted, they had wished for and 
foreseen from the beginning. But though the bride and bride¬ 
groom were polite to them, there w r as not in their behaviour 
the warmth and cordiality which marked their intercourse with 
Mademoiselle Ursule. This difference became still more 
marked after their marriage; for whereas the staymaker was 
almost constantly their guest, the porters received no further 
invitations. Madame Bichonnet now began to think poor 
Mademoiselle Miroiton had been sadly used, and she called on 
12 * 


274 


SEVEN YEARS. 


lier for the purpose of condoling with her misfortune; but the 
young lady, who had a high spirit, shut the door in her face, 
and informed M. Bichonnet’s landlord of the code of regula¬ 
tions he had set up in his house; the consequence of which 
was, that the porters were discharged, and left the neighbour¬ 
hood, “ with the consciousness,” as M. Bichonnet said, “ of 
having vainly endeavoured to serve his fellow-men.” 

About a year after his marriage—need we say it proved a 
happy one ?—Antoine met M. Bichonnet in a remote neigh¬ 
bourhood. He inquired after the health of Madame Bichonnet, 
and learned that it had greatly improved since they had 
opened a commercial establishment. Antoine looked surprised. 
“ Yes,” continued the former porter with his usual dignity, 
“ we sell fried potatoes on the Pont-Neuf.” 

Antoine smiled, and wishing him every success, bade him 
farewell. Six months later he met him again. He was more 
thin and dignified than ever. Antoine hoped his affairs were 
in a flourishing state. 

“ No, sir, they are not,” loftily replied M. Bichonnet; u the 
year has been dreadful for trade, and we have suffered like 
everybody. I suppose you have suffered too ? ” 

“ No, indeed; I was never better of.” 

“ That is strange; all the tradespeople we know failed. But 
we have not, mind you. No, no, sir; we have given up the 
potatoe concern, it is true, but our honour is unsullied.” 

“ And where are you now ? ” asked Antoine. 

“ We have a porter’s lodge in the Faubourg St Antoine. 
A poor place, sir. Ah ! times are changed since we eat the 
Kings’ cake with you in our comfortable lodge.” 

Merely inquiring for his direction, Antoine took leave of 
M. Bichonnet. The same evening he held a long and private 
conference with his wife. Mademoiselle Ursule saw that some¬ 
thing was going to take place; and though too proud to ques¬ 
tion them, she used her eyes and ears without scruple. The 
next morning she learned that Antoine was to call on his land¬ 
lord, who resided in the house where llosine had formerly 
lived, and which he had lately bought from its original posses¬ 
sor. What could Antoine want with him ? For several days 
she could learn nothing, but the truth at last became apparent. 
On a fine morning, a small cart-load of furniture, led by M. 
Bichonnet, and with Madame Bichonnet perched on the top of 
a very high bedstead, stopped at the door of the house oppo¬ 
site. As Madame Bichonnet nodded and smiled very benig- 
nantly to her, there could be no doubt about it. On learning 


SEVEN YEARS. 


275 


that Antoine had recommended the Biehonnets to his landlord, 
who was in want of porters, Mademoiselle was at first highly 
indignant, ldosine, however, succeeded in pacifying her, by 
mentioning their unhappy state, and reminding her that if Mad¬ 
ame Bichonnet had not entertained a wholesome apprehension 
of sitting down to a table when there were thirteen persons 
present, they would never have become acquainted. As for 
Mademoiselle Miroiton, she entered into a desperate rage on 
perceiving her ancient enemies once more in possession of their 
stronghold. She even sought out every opportunity of injur¬ 
ing them; but the porters had been taught by misfortune. 
They still occasionally gave parties, but avoided notoriety, and 
condescended to behave more politely to their lodgers. Ill- 
disposed persons asserted, however, that the new landlord’s 
presence alone prevented M. Bichonnet from carrying on mat¬ 
ters with as high a hand as formerly. 

As for Madame Bichonnet, she was marvellously improved 
in health, and went about the house quite briskly, considering 
her delicate state—for she still spoke occasionally of her ail¬ 
ments, and indulged in dismal forebodings of not living be¬ 
yond the spring; but, as Mademoiselle Ursule charitably 
observed, this was “ through habit.” Misfortune had not, 
however, soured Madame Biclionnet’s placid temper. She 
spoke kindly of every one, and never said anything worse of 
Mademoiselle Miroiton than that, u Poor thing! so, notwith¬ 
standing every effort she made, she could not get married 
after all. It grieves me to the heart; but indeed I always 
thought her too high-spirited for matrimony ! ” 

\Ve have dwelt somewhat lightly on the married life of 
Antoine and Rosine ; but it is happy, and what more could be 
said? Mademoiselle Ursule, whose somewhat irritable temper 
they bear with the most praiseworthy patience, is still their 
best and most constant friend : they are thoroughly happy and 
prosperous, in the moral and worldly sense of the words. 

The Biehonnets are still in their old lodge: they have 
left off a good deal of their selfish worldliness—would we 
might say all!—and are quite cured of the temptation of 
match-making. For indeed, as M. Bichonnet loftily observes, 
it hardly becomes the dignity of a French porter to meddle in 
such affairs ; and he very much doubts whether his duty to 
his fellow-men does not forbid it entirely. The last tidings 
we had of the Biehonnets declare that, on the 6th of January 
last, an enormous twelfth-cake was cut up in their lodge; the 
persons present were, besides the hosts, Antoine Tourneur, 


276 


SEVEN YEARS. 


with his wife and two children, Mademoiselle Ursule, and the 
melancholy young man who sings the comic songs, and who 
declared, that though they were not yet thirteen, there -was no 
knowing what might happen in time, winking as he spoke tow 
ards Madame Tourneur and the children; a joke which ob¬ 
tained much success, and is not yet forgotten in the neighbour¬ 
hood. The same young man is said to have paid great attention 
to Mademoiselle Ursule. As she is resolved to remain single, 
this must be a calumny; and yet it may be true enough, for 
Mademoiselle Ursule herself was the person who originated the 
report. On the same evening M. Bichonnet also confidentially 
informed one of his guests—which, it is not known—that Louis 
Philippe had only a very short time to remain on the throne. 
He prudently refrained from saying how long, for fear the 
police might seek to involve him in some political conspiracy. 




A COMEDY IN A COURT-YARD. 

Every one knows that Paris is no longer what it was. It 
has been pulled down and rebuilt: every old street, every old 
nook and corner which antiquarian lore hallowed and wor¬ 
shipped, has been cleansed away from the face of the land. 
Broad clear streets lined with palaces have replaced the 
narrow, winding, and most picturesque street of old times, the 
street in which two carriages could not meet without creating 
an uproar, for it was impossible for either to pass unless the 
other retrograded, and which should give way was a battle to 
be long and obstinately fought; that street, in short, which 
no one who walked in it once ever forgot, has become a myth 
as w T e write. 

Contemporary with the street was the archway that led 
into the court-yard. Both w r ere well worthy of remark : the 
archway for its ancient w r ell-worn carving, the court-yard for 
the epitome of human life it held within its w r all3; for the 
little world that, unconscious and careless of the great world 
around, moved and lived there. Such a court-yard there ex¬ 
isted a few years ago in the very heart of Paris. There it may 
be still, but we confess that the chances against this are many : 
we assume its continued existence without warranting it. 

This court-yard was ancient and gloomy ; the houses were 



SEVEN YEARS. 


277 


tall and high ; a glimpse of sky appeared between the lines of 
lofty roofs, and in the ever-open arch of the entrance was framed 
a quaint picture of an antique shop, with yards of red and 
white calico coming down from the second-floor and fluttering 
in the wind: besides this shop, which stood in the street, the 
inhabitants of the court-yard had the prospect of cabs, cars, 
and vehicles of every description, that met and came at a 
stand-still opposite the arch, and had their battles there some¬ 
thing like twenty-five times and three-sevenths in the course 
of the day. The author of this accurate calculation was Mon¬ 
sieur Gant, an ancient public scrivener, the oldest inhabitant 
of the court-yard, and, beyond all doubt, the chief dignitary 
of the place. 

Some thirty years before the opening of this narrative 
Monsieur Gant had entered a narrow, wooden mansion of 
venerable antiquity, and which, according to tradition, had be¬ 
longed to three public scriveners before him. It stood high, 
like a Swiss chalet, so that torrents might flow underneath it 
and beat against its wooden walls in vain. It had wheels like 
the car of Juggernaut, and, *!is Monsieur Gant triumphantly 
said : “ I can go where I like without stirring from my table : 
ay, I can actually be transported from one end of Paris to the 
other, for, like the snail, I bear my mansion with me ! ” But, 
to the honour of his magnanimity be it said, Monsieur Gant 
was never known to use this formidable privilege. No, not 
even to the length or the breadth of the court was his dwelling: 
ever known to move. Satisfied with the knowledge of its power 
of locomotion, and indolent, perhaps, by nature, it stayed still, 
aided to this by the fact that a team of four horses or the ex¬ 
ertions of a dozen men alone could have set it stirring. With¬ 
out examining, however, the causes of its tranquillity, the in¬ 
habitants of the court felt no alarm from its vicinity, and looked 
at the curling white smoke which rose steadily out of its 
solitary chimney with no more alarm than the Campanians of 
the last two thousand years have felt in gazing at the cloud 
which ever hangs over the sullen brow of Vesuvius. 

Thus motionless and majestic Monsieur Gant’s mansion 
stood in a shady corner of the court, near a stone fountain, 
half way between a washerwoman’s tubs and an applewoman’s 
stall. A faded curtain interposed its dusty texture betwixt 
M. Gant’s wundow and the vulgar gaze, whilst, by a neatly- 
written bill, fixed with wafers to a pane of glass, the scrivener 
modestly informed the public of his readiness to indite or copy 
out epistles in the French language, at a very moderate price. 


278 


SEVEN YEARS. 


The personal appearance of M. Gant -was by no means re¬ 
markable. He was a thin, withered little man, who looked as 
though he had formerly been much larger, but had since 
shrunk through some unaccountable process. His character 
was a strange compound of simplicity and punctilio. He had 
a great opinion of his own sagacity and depth, was vain of his 
little learning, and, by a whimsical contradiction, loved to 
think himself haughty and implacable, whilst he was in reality 
the most simple and easy of good-natured beings. During 
the daytime, M. Gant was to be found in his wooden box, 
waiting with exemplary patience for the arrival of customers, 
who seldom made their appearance, and conning over La 
Grammaire des Grammaires: for Monsieur Gant would have 
gone into fits if, even in settling a cook’s accounts, he had com¬ 
mitted one of those grammatical errors which the subtleties 
of the French language render it so difficult to avoid. It was 
the boast of his harmless life that his style was clear and his 
French correct. 

In the evenings, when his box was locked up, Monsieur 
Gant entered one of the ancient houses that surrounded the 
court, climbed up five pair of stairs, opened the door of his 
cold and gloomy garret, and eat his solitary and frugal dinner. 
After this, Monsieur Gant emerged again, crossed the landing, 
and knocked at the opposite door. A deep bass voice cried 
out: 11 Qui vive ? ” 

“ Gant,” was the heroic reply. Upon which the door would 
open and reveal Sergeant Huron on the threshold. 

Sergeant Huron belonged to a race which has all but 
vanished from France. There may be old men who fought as 
boys at Waterloo, but the old soldier of the Republic, who re¬ 
membered its triumphs and its excesses, the old routier who 
could reckon up his campaigns on his fingers, who crossed the 
Alps and the Rhine, who saw the Pyramids with Napoleon, or 
survived the snows of Russia, is gone, or all but gone, as we 
write. 

However, Sergeant Huron was not a solitary relic of the 
old Napoleonist soldier, at the time when he opened his door 
to Monsieur Gant, and welcomed him with a “ How do you 
do, old boy ? ” uttered in stentorian tones, and a slap on the 
back that made Monsieur Gant shake again. 

Sergeant Huron was six foot six; he had been a grena¬ 
dier, and still wore a martial mustache, and a bonnet de police 
set of one side, and which made the boldest boys of the court¬ 
yard quake. It would have been difficult to declare why he 


SEVEN YEARS. 


279 


was pleased to receive Monsieur Gant’s visits, and why he was 
honoured with these visits by Monsieur Gant, but contrasts 
which are said to be indispensable in love may be as requisite 
in friendship. Certain it is, that though the scrivener was 
slow and pedantic in his speech, not to speak of the formality 
of his temper, that though Sergeant Huron’s ideas and con¬ 
versation never extended beyond Napoleon and his own ex¬ 
ploits, and though his manners were neither polished nor refined, 
yet they agreed wonderfully well, met with pleasure, and were 
miserable when they spent one evening apart. 

As usual, Monsieur Gant had taken his frugal meal, where, 
against all culinary rules, there was more cheese than meat, 
he had locked up his room, crossed his landing, knocked at the 
opposite door, been hailed by the Qui vive ? and answered 
“ Gant; ” as usual, he had got the slap on the back, and, sit¬ 
ting down by the open window,—it commanded a view of 
leads, cats, and flower-pots,—he was recovering his breath, 
when Sergeant Huron, drawing back two steps, exclaimed : 

“ Gant! what has happened ? ” 

11 Nothing, Captain, nothing,” replied Monsieur Gant, with 
a wave of the hand. 

“ I tell you something has happened.” 

“ Oh! nothing,—nothing. The old story : she has been 
at her tricks again.” 

Sergeant Huron twirled his mustache and looked fierce. 

“ She is a lady, and therefore is safe,” he said ominously. 
u Her j^etticoat saves her. Otherwise—” 

He broke off, leaving the rest to the imagination of Mon¬ 
sieur Gant; but curiosity, which is strong in man, proving 
strong, he soon resumed : u Come, Gant, what has happened ? ” 

“ This much,” sententiously replied the scrivener, “ she has 
insulted me with the vicinity of a cobbler ; a vulgar cobbler, 
for what is so vulgar as the smell of leather ? It is her doing, 
I know it; but, as usual, I shall scorn to resent it.” 

“ The cobbler does not wear a petticoat, at least,” said Ser¬ 
geant Huron, with a grim smile. u His apron need not pre¬ 
vent me from remonstrating mildly with him, and advising him 
still very mildly not to come to the court, or to remove from it 
with due haste ! ” 

To this mild proposal Monsieur Gant, who knew of old 
that his friend was for carrying matters with a hasty military 
fashion of his own, returned a prudent denial, couching the 
motives of his refusal in a Latin quotation on the violence of 


280 


SEVEN YEARS. 


warlike Mars, which Sergeant Huron, without understanding 
it, took as a personal compliment of the first water. 

“Very well,” he magnanimously said, “ let the cobbler 
come 5 but remember that, should his behaviour prove excep¬ 
tionable—I am there.” 

“ I shall crush them all with contempt,” loftily said Mon¬ 
sieur Gant. 

From the preceding conversation we see that if the little 
scrivener had a friend, he also had that bane of life, an enemy. 
The individual which he and Sergeant Huron had referred to 
by the pronoun “she” was no other than the applewoman, 
whose stall stood in close proximity to his box, most imperti¬ 
nently obstructing the passage to his door, and sometimes 
actually shutting him in. The mistress of the stall was a 
stout, fiery-faced little woman, with a thick, hoarse voice, 
which became startlingly shrill when she was at all excited, 
and bead-like eyes, beneath whose fixity of stare it was averred 
that M. Gant himself had quailed; although the truth is, that, 
being a dauntless little man, he cared not a pin for her. Why 
they were foes it would be hard to tell; yet they both felt that 
they were so ; at least M. Gant, though incapable of the feel¬ 
ing, thought he hated the applewoman, who most cordially 
hated him. It would be tedious to relate by how many methods 
she sought to annoy the scrivener. Hut all her attacks proved 
unavailing : he did not even condescend to answer her most 
bitter taunts : he literally crushed her with the weight of his 
contempt. 

The fact was, that, owing to a certain philosophy, either 
constitutional or acquired, M. Gant could not be long teased 
by anything, and somehow or other the applewoman’s most 
artful contrivances to vex him generally added to his comfort 
or pleasure in the end. The persuading of a cobbler of her 
acquaintance to come and fix his abode in the court, exactly 
opposite the scrivener’s box, was, however, the sorest blow she 
had as yet had the power to inflict. M. Gant, though he ap¬ 
parently remained indifferent to this attack, was in reality 
more annoyed than, for fear of any violence, he chose to show 
to his friend Sergeant Huron, and it was with a mixture of 
irritation and wrath that he awaited the event. 

The cobbler’s shed—which, as M. Gant indignantly de¬ 
clared, consisted of mud, wood, and plaster—was erected in 
the space of a few days, and pronounced ready to receive 
its new tenants, who accordingly hastened to remove to it. This 
important event took place on a fine summer’s morning, when 


SEVEN YEARS. 


281 


M. Gant, wlio had just seated himself before his desk, could 
look on the whole proceedings. A small wheelbarrow or 
hand-cart, drawn by a man with a very black face, and fol¬ 
lowed by a woman blacker still, first made its appearanee. A 
cradle, which was to be swung from the roof of the shed, a 
dirty board, destined to act as a table, a couple of bottomless 
chairs, a saucepan, and a washing-tub, were successively taken 
out of the truck and placed in the shed; the care of the 
whole, besides that of the truck, at the bottom of which still 
remained some crockery, being confided to the cobbler’s eldest 
son, a boy of seven or eight, whose parents, having more 
things to bring to their new abode, now left alone, with strong 
recommendations not to touch a certain pot of dripping, which 
it seems w y as also in the cart. It is well known what wonder¬ 
ful uses the French of the poorer classes make of dripping: 
in fact, they live upon it. They take it in the morning, 
diluted with warm water, under the name of soup; spread 
it, for lunch, on their bread instead of butter ; eat it again 
as soup in the evening; and apply it to various other pur¬ 
poses with most praiseworthy ingenuity. 

How it happened we will not venture to say ; but when 
the cobbler and his wife came back, they found their eldest 
son in a singularly awkward position. The dripping-pot 
was a very deep narrow one—an earthen marraite , that did 
not look much unlike a helmet. Whether this resemblance 
struck the fancy of young Louis, or whether he was im¬ 
pelled by a natural taste for dripping, would be difficult to 
determine; but certain it is that his parents found him 
sitting in the truck, and, to their unutterable dismay, with 
his head snugly ensconced in the dripping-pot. To see how 
it had got in was easy enough ; but to say how it was 
likely to get out again was a more difficult task. The cob¬ 
bler flew into a terrible passion; he bade Louis take his 
head out that very instant, and prepare for a sound whip¬ 
ping the next. The unfortunate Louis endeavoured to obey 
the first part of this injunction. His mother pulled at the 
pot, and he pulled, and all pulled; but it was of no use—oil' 
it would not come. The cobbler had promised his son a 
thrashing when the pot should be off; he now determined 
to give it him first, and wrathfully advanced to seize upon 
him; but hoodwinked as he was, Louis guessed his intention. 
He rapidly darted towards the top of the truck, which as 
suddenly flew to the ground : Louis lost his balance, and in a 


282 


SEVEN YEARS. 


second down lie rolled with the dripping-pot, and over him 
the truck with all its contents. 

The scene that ensued—for the cobbler’s other tv T o chil¬ 
dren, who were now arrived, joined in the cry—no pen cai/ 
describe : suffice it to say, that there w T as not a saucepan but 
was considerably damaged, nor a plate that w r as not broken. 
When picked up by his alarmed mother, Louis was found 
completely unshelled, very little injured, but somewhat 
scratched, and bedaubed with draping to an extraordinary 
degree. 

“ I promised him a whipping, and a wdiipping he shall get,” 
said the cobbler, whose wrath had only undergone a tem¬ 
porary lull. With his left hand he seized him, and raising 
the right he prepared to give him a sound castigation, 
when an authoritative voice called out “stop.” He turned 
round, and saw Monsieur Grant standing on the threshold 
of his mansion, stern and majestic. 

“ Stop ! and w T hy should I stop ? ” asked the cobbler, with 
surly republican independence. 

“ Because the boy has suffered enough for his low gorman¬ 
dizing,” said Monsieur Gant, with an increase of majesty. 

“ And I say, let every man whip his own child,” said the 
applewoman, -who came tucking up her skirts, “ and spare the 
rod and spoil the child,” she added, sitting down at her stall. 

The cobbler hesitated : but a piteous whine from Louis 
settled the matter. His paternal heart relented, and with a 
scowl he bade the lad be off, on which Louis shot past them 
all like an arrow, and Monsieur Gant, pleased with his vic¬ 
tory, cast an eye of favour on the cobbler, and reentered his 
mansion. He derived a triumph from the very vicinity 
which his enemy had intended as an annoyance and an insult. 
In time he actually came to like that vicinity. 

The cobbler w r as a merry industrious man, who sang and 
worked all the day long; whilst his wife, as industriously en¬ 
gaged, sewed, washed, and cooked—all in the shed—and ac¬ 
companied her husband’s strains by scolding her three unruly 
children. Still they were, upon the whole, a happy, good- 
humoured, and simple family, who won so much upon M. 
Gant’s affections by the unbounded deference they paid him, 
tliat he began in time to like the cobbler’s merry songs, the 
noise and romping of his children, and even the scolding of 
their mother. It was, besides, very pleasant for a philosopher 
like him to watch daily the household concerns of the simple 
people of the shed, who with the greatest candour and naivete 


SEVEN YEARS. 


283 


laid open to liis view every incident of joy or woe in their 
humble existence. He thus, unconsciously to them, and with¬ 
out ever having addressed them, became the partner of their 
little trials, and the unknown sharer of their mirth. He 
watched the children growing up, and the parents growing 
gray. A certain screaming baby, called Marianne, who had 
long annoyed him, became in time a pretty laughing child, and 
then a blushing maiden, on whom he loved to gaze; Louis of 
the dripping-pot assumed quite a manly air, and, owing to his 
cheerfulness and good-temper, was M. Gant’s especial fa¬ 
vourite ; and thus the most formidable attempt which the ap- 
plewoman had yet made against the scrivener’s peace of mind, 
turned out like all the rest, and literally added to his pleasure 
and happiness. Seeing that he was really invulnerable, his 
enemy at last gave him a short respite, and, intrenched behind 
her stall, silently brooded over her defeat. 

When Louis, who was now a journeyman carpenter, was 
somewhere in his twenty-second year, M. Gant began to ob¬ 
serve what had been visible to all the inhabitants of the court 
for several years ; namely, that the young man carried on a 
kind of sentimental flirtation with the washerwoman’s daugh¬ 
ter, Angelique, a girl of eighteen, very pretty, and very ca¬ 
pricious, but withal very charming. It was a great source of 
pleasure to M. Gant to observe the progress of their simple 
courtship. At first Louis, when coming home from his work 
in the evening, would loiter * at the fountain; and whilst the 
good housewives of the court, Angelique’s mother among the 
rest, were filling their buckets with water, and chatting to¬ 
gether, he would address a few insignificant phrases to the 
young girl, and retire quite satisfied with her coy and mono¬ 
syllabic answers. Gradually, however, he grew more bold and 
confident. Angelique had a pretty voice and a good ear, the 
result of which was, that she sang all the day long, to the 
scrivener’s infinite gratification, and the applewoman’s conse¬ 
quent annoyance. With the view of indulging her taste, 
Louis brought her home all the songs he could procure ; then 
he taught her the tuues; and at last he sang them with her in 
the cool summer evenings, until the whole court gathered 
around them; for, to say the truth, Louis never saw Ange¬ 
lique but on the threshold of her mother’s door. Several 
months had thus elapsed, when, as the conclusion of the whole 
affair was evidently drawing near, M. Gant uneasily noticed 
certain symptoms of change in the demeanour of the lovers. 
One evening, Louis, contrary to his usual custom, came not to 


284 


SEVEN YEAES. 


the meeting: the next day Angelique received him with such 
evident coldness, that he retired earlier than usual. On the 
following evening Louis came home from his work somewhat 
later, and, without going near Angelique, paused for a few 
minutes at the fountain; and seeing him, she hastily entered 
her mother’s house, and closed the door. The next day the 
young carpenter did not even approach the washerwoman’s 
abode, though the scrivener caught a glimpse of him in the 
court. Several days elapsed, and yet there was no change on 
either side : the lovers only became cooler and cooler, until, 
at the end of a week, they seemed totally estranged. 

M. Gant saw this, and grew sad : he had been cheered a 
while by the sight of their simple courtship ; he had loved to 
watch its progress evening after evening, and be the unseen 
witness of many little circumstances which had escaped the 
vulgar gaze; and now those in whom he had felt so deep an 
interest grew, like the world, indifferent and cold, taking from 
him one of his few pleasures. As usual, Monsieur Gant poured 
this sorrow into Sergeant Huron’s friendly bosom.” 

“ It is too bad,” he said, lamenting, “ these two children 
might be as happy as the day is long, and they will not-—they 
will not. The perversity of human nature.” 

Sergeant Huron’s mustache had grown white, but he 
twirled it as much as ever. 

“ Shall I interfere ? ” he suggested, “ make all right in a 
few minutes, eh ! You know how I manage.” 

“ Thank you, thank you,” replied Monsieur Gant, sur¬ 
prised at this considerate proposal; “ lovers’ quarrels are best 
left alone. Besides, I feel sure the applewoman is at the bot¬ 
tom of it all.” 

This only whetted Sergeant Huron’s eagerness to make the 
loves of Louis and Angelique all right, and all Monsieur Gant’s 
eagerness and diplomacy were required to allay the old sol¬ 
dier’s ardour, and make him relinquish this brilliant idea. 

One evening, when M. Gant, who had grown quite misan¬ 
thropic, was bitterly ruminating in the solitude of his wooden 
mansion, he was startled by a knock at his door. He opened, 
and Louis entered. The scrivener eyed him with silent sur¬ 
prise, whilst the young man, unconscious of the feeling he ex¬ 
cited, laid on his desk a small slip of paper, briefly saying : 

“ Will you have the kindness to copy out and correct this, 
sir ? ” 

Monsieur Gant stroked his chin, signed the young man tc 
be seated, put on his spectacles, and read the paper attentive- 


SEVEN YEARS. 


2S5 


ly. It was a rude scrawl, in which the young carpenter had 
somewhat imperfectly attempted to express his feelings. Its 
incoherence did not, however, much astonish Monsieur Gant; 
for he was accustomed to love-letters,—we need scarcely say 
this was one,—hut he paid more attention to its general pur¬ 
port. Louis, carefully avoiding to mention the name of An- 
gelique—an act of prudence which made the scrivener smile 
inwardly—addressed her in the following style. Monsieur 
Gant thinking it proper to read this epistle aloud, we shall 
give it with his comments. 

“ 1 mademoiselle ’—Humph ! capital M wanted here—‘ you 
treat me with cruel coldness. I had such a headache last 
night I could scarcely sleep ! ’■—what about it ? hum. 1 1 have 
done nothing, nothing, Mademoiselle. Marianne knows it.’— 
Knows nothing f I wonder how you make that out. What 
next ? Ah ! 1 1 see you wish me to forget you. I shall do 

so ; yes, I declare I will. 

1 Your lover till I die, 

‘ Louis.’ 

“ You will forget her,” said Monsieur Gant, with a super¬ 
cilious look at the young man, who had heard him, red as fire, 
and evidently on thorns, 11 and yet you are her lover till you 
die. I do not understand. Please to enlighten me.” 

11 1 beg, sir, that you will correct all mistakes,” stammered 
Louis; “ if I had known how to write a letter I would not 
have come to you.” 

“ There is more logic in that than in this epistle,” kindly 
said Monsieur Gant, and with a flourish of his pen he set about 
transcribing the love-letter. 

Spite his criticisms, Monsieur Gant did not dream of alter¬ 
ing it. He was a judge of the human heart, and he saw that 
the letter, with all its incoherence and its absurdity, was better 
than any he could write, for it was true. He therefore merely 
corrected the spelling as he transcribed it: when it was fin¬ 
ished, he tossed it to Louis with a scornful “ There, sir.” The 
young man placed a franc on his desk, thanked him shortly, 
and retired. 

“ Ungrateful boy,” muttered the scrivener, as the door 
closed on the young man. He felt aggrieved that one of the 
two beings whose fate had of late been his chief concern, should 
look upon him as a stranger. That his own lofty haughtiness 
made it impossible for either of the lovers to divine his secret 
sympathy, Monsieur Gant would never have acknowledged. 

Still it is but fair to him to declare that this secret sym- 


286 


SEVEN YEARS. 


path}" was in no wise diminished by the ingratitude of Ange¬ 
lique and Louis, and it was with the utmost impatience that 
he waited for the next evening, in order to see what effect the 
letter had produced. 

The lovers met, seemingly by chance, as usual, near the 
stone fountain. Louis timidly approached the young girl, and 
whispered something in her ear ; but she scornfully drew back, 
and, with a toss of her head, retired to her mother’s shop. 
Louis looked sadly after her, still standing rooted to the same 
spot, until the stifled giggling of some mischievous girls near 
the fountain aroused him from his trance. Suddenly starting, 
he cast an indignant glance around him, and hastened to de¬ 
part, apparently much mortified by Angelique’s contemptuous 
treatment. 

“ What could all this mean ? ” Such wae the scrivener’s 
thought, when the unexpected entrance into his lodge of a 
woman, wrapped up in a coarse dark shawl, awakened him 
from his reverie. He turned with surprise towards the new¬ 
comer ; but notwithstanding her disguise, a glance was enough 
to let him know that Angelique stood before him. As soon 
as the door was closed upon her she sat down, and without 
attempting to conceal her person any longer, she said in a lofty 
tone, that did not exactly suit her pretty little face : 

“ Monsieur Gant, I am come to request a favour from you. 
Yesterday I received this letter,” and she laid Louis’s epistle 
on the table, “ from a person I detest.” 

“ Detest! ” echoed the scrivener. 

a Yes, sir, detest,” loftily added Angelique, “ and with 
whom I wish to hold no further correspondence. May I beg 
of you tell him so in my name ? ” 

M. Gant took up his pen; a sheet of letter-paper was be¬ 
fore him ; he placed his hand upon it, as though to write ; but 
laid it down again, and calmly said, “ Why not tell him as 
much yourself, Mademoiselle ? You see him every day.” 

“Because I do not wish to speak to him any more, sir,” 
she sharply answered. 

“ Or perhaps you are unable to write yourself?” hinted 
the scrivener. 

Angelique frowned, and looked displeased. 11 I know how 
to write sir,” she stilly replied ; “ but since he has chosen to 
ajDply to you to write to me, I shall answer him in the same 
manner.” 

“ And who told you that it was I who wrote this letter ? ” 


SEVEN YEARS. 


287 


asked M. Gant, turning inquiringly towards her ; “ for if you 
know that, I know that you were out yesterday.” 

Angelique coloured, but evasively answered, “ Monsieur 
Gant, if you do not wish to write this letter, pray say so at 
once.” , 

u No, no,” said the scrivener, as she rose to depart, u since 
you are determined to be miserable, I shall no longer seek to 
prevent you.” 

And so saying, he once more took hold of his pen, and in 
a few brief words, as severe as Angelique could wish them to 
be, he intimated to poor Louis that the capricious beauty cared 
for neither his repentance nor for his most passionate protesta¬ 
tions. When he had finished his task, M. Gant handed the 
letter to the young girl, watching her features in the hope of 
seeing them betray some compunction for the severity of his 
expressions. But far from it: she seemed highly delighted 
with the epistle, thanked him very warmly, liberally remuner¬ 
ated him for his trouble, and left him sadder than ever, and 
in a bitter mood of invective against girls, their lovers, and 
human nature in general. “ For,” he observed, when he was 
left alone with his own thoughts, u it is easy to see how 
thoroughly bad human nature is, since those young people, 
who have known each other from childhood, who have been 
lovers for years, now part for ever, not only without a pang, 
but even with joy ; and, in all probability, owing to some mere 
trifle that has come between them.” 

Now, although he could not possibly imagine what this 
important trifle was, M. Gant had his own private suspicions 
concerning his spiteful little neighbour the applewoman, to 
whom he was indeed in the habit of referring every evil that 
occurred. It was evident that some mischievous person had 
informed Angelique of Louis’s visit to him, a step not unlikely 
to prejudice him in her eyes ; but then there existed no proof 
that this fact had been revealed to the young girl by the apple- 
woman ; and though he narrowly scanned her features more 
than once, M. Gant could discover in them none of the ma¬ 
licious triumph -which generally betrayed her when she had 
been engaged in some work of mischief. She was apparently 
calm, and wholly unconscious of what was going on. 

The next day passed, and nothing occurred, save that in 
the evening Louis came home from his work seemingly much 
disheartened, so that the scrivener, who was very fidgetty, and 
constantly on the look-out, concluded that he had received 
Angelique’s letter. On the following morning, as he sat at an 


288 


SEVEN YE AES. 


early hour in his box, he noticed Louis in a remote corner of 
the court engaged in a mysterious conference with his pretty 
sister Marianne. M. Grant easily guessed the subject of their 
conversation; and as Marianne was not only cheerful and 
good-tempered, but also possessed of much intuitive tact, and 
stood, moreover, on friendly terms with Angelique, he augured 
success from her interposition, and impatiently waited for its 
result. But Marianne was a real diplomatist; and instead of 
injudiciously hurrying to perform her delicate errand, she 
loitered about the court, now entering, now leaving her father’s 
shed with a most unconcerned air. It was not until the after¬ 
noon was far advanced that the scrivener saw her at length i 
proceeding towards the washerwoman’s shop. She could not 
have chosen a more unlucky moment; for Angelique, who was 
ironing in a little back parlour, was also there, entertaining a 
sentimental young v tailor, laughing and chatting with him very 
merrily. Now this young man, who lived in the court, had 
formerly paid no little attention to Marianne, who, when 
teased on the subject, very seriously averred that “ she did 
not care for him; indeed she did not!” Nevertheless, when 
she entered the parlour, and saw how thoroughly poor Louis 
was slighted, and for whom all her sisterly feelings were 
aroused, she felt so indignant at Angelique’s coquetry, that she 
could scarcely contain herself. In short, she threw out such 
hints, that ere long the young tailor prudently departed; 
whilst Angelique, who was not very patient, retorted in so high 
a strain, that Marianne fairly lost her temper, and flounced out 
of the room in a state of great indignation. Though M. Gant 
saw nothing of this, he conjectured, by the young tailor’s 
retreat, and Marianne’s agitation, that the ambassadress had 
failed, a surmise which was confirmed by Louis’s behaviour on 
the next morning; for as he was entering his wooden box, the 
young man followed him in. 

“ Monsieur Gant,” said he, throwing a piece of paper on 
the table, “ please to transcribe this.” 

‘This’ proved to be a very laconic epistle. ‘Mademoi¬ 
selle,’ it said, ‘ you tell me to forget you. I will obey you as 
soon as I can. Farewell. Louis.’ 

“ Now I call this sensible,” said Monsieur Gant, with such 
deep and cutting irony, that Louis never perceived its point. 
“ As soon as you can ! How judicious. Here is your letter, 
sir.” 

On the evening of the same day Angelique entered the 


SEVEN YEARS. 


289 


scrivener’s box, to dictate the following answer : “The sooner 
you forget me the better.” 

“ Admirable ! ” cried Monsieur Gant. “ I really do ad¬ 
mire your spirit, Mademoiselle ! ” 

Angelique gave him a quick, mistrustful look, but bowed 
and withdrew. 

“ And now,” pettishly observed M. Gant, when she had re¬ 
tired, “ I suppose that most absurd correspondence of theirs, 
by means of which they have contrived to keep me in hot 
water for the last week, is over at length.” 

But the scrivener evidently did not understand such mat¬ 
ters ; for although there was a kind of two days’ truce, during 
which Louis went early to his work, and came home late, 
never once approaching the old stone fountain—near which 
Angelique openly flirted with the young tailor—it was evident, 
by the attitude of both parties, that things could not last long 
as they w T ere. On the evening of the third day, Louis entered 
M. Gant’s box in a state of great agitation. 

“ Monsieur Gant,” he exclaimed, 11 this is more than 
human flesh and blood can endure, and you must tell her so ! ” 

“ Oh, you have not forgotten her yet ? ” ironically observed 
the scrivener. 

But Louis cared not for irony : he was desperate ; he had 
just caught a glimpse of Angelique seated in her mother’s shop 
with his rival, and liis overcharged heart poured itself forth in 
a torrent of eloquent reproaches, which he charged M. Gant to 
commit to paper, never once reflecting that the scrivener could 
not possibly recollect as much as the one-tenth of what he was 
saying. M. Gant did not make the attempt; he let the young 
man speak away, conjecturing it would relieve him, and do him 
good ; and in the mean while he cast a stern and angry glance 
towards the spot where Angelique was sitting with the tailor. 
To the scrivener’s satisfaction, the young man rose to depart. 
Angelique tried to detain him ; but he persisted in his resolu¬ 
tion, and went away. Although she hummed a tune, and tried 
to look indifferent, Angelique could not conceal her vexation ; 
and on hearing some remark made by one of the washerwomen, 
she left the shop in. a pet, and walked out into the court. It 
was at this moment that Louis, who had seen nothing of all 
this by-play reached the most pathetic part of his imaginary 
epistle, and eloquently reminded Angelique of their former 
attachment, once more begging to know how he had erred. 

“ Stop! here,” cried Monsieur Gant, who had been 

13 


290 


SEVEN YE AES. 


anxiously watching his opportunity for the last two or three 
seconds, a stop ! you can best tell her all this herself.” 

And before Louis could make any reply, he had partly 
opened his door, and calling on Angelique, who was just then 
passing before it, made her enter. It was not until she was in 
and the door had been securely closed upon her by the consider¬ 
ate M. Gant, that the young girl became aware of Louis’s 
presence. On seeing her lover, she started back and grew 
pale; but soon rallying, and casting a w T rathful glance on the 
scrivener, she addressed Louis in an offended tone. 

“ Pray, sir, what is it so very particular you have to say to 
me here ? ” 

“ I assure you, Mademoiselle,” stammered forth Louis, “I 
only came for a letter which Monsieur Gant—” He looked for 
the letter on the desk, but there was none. 

“ Yes,” observed the scrivener in a tone of studied irony, 
“ I was waiting till you should have done. As Mademoiselle 
is now here, you can tell her all you have to say. . I have no 
doubt,” he superciliously added, “ it will spare me the trouble 
of writing down a good deal of nonsense ; ” and with a look of 
thorough contempt foivall love-letters and love affairs, he took 
down La Grammaire des Grammaires, and became, to all ap¬ 
pearance, deeply absorbed by its contents. 

There was a long and awkward silence : Louis at length 
began speaking in an embarrassed tonehis words were in¬ 
coherent and low ; but warming with his subject, he gradually 
grew so eloquent and pathetic, that M. Gant thought it was not 
in the heart of mortal maiden to resist him. Angelique, how¬ 
ever, not only appeared to hear Louis without emotion, but when 
he had concluded, inquired, with freezing politeness, what else 
he had to say ? 

“ Nothing,” faintly answered Louis. Angelique turned 
towards the door : the scrivener saw it was time for him to in¬ 
terfere. 

“ Children, children ! ” he reproachfully exclaimed, u what 
is all this about ? Who has come between your hearts and 
the love of so many years ? ” Angelique hung down her head 
but remained silent. 

“ Nay,” observed Louis, now fairly exasperated, u let her 
alone, Monsieur Gant, since she will not be softened.” 

“ And pray, sir,” cried Angelique angrily, “ who asks you 
to think of me at all ? ” Thus the scrivener’s kind effort to 
effect a reconciliation between the lovers was on the point of 
embittering the quarrel; but by dint of coaxing, entreaties, 


SEVEN YEAES. 


291 


and soothing words, he at last induced them to give him a 
patient hearing. This discourse, though somewhat long, was 
not very varied : he only spoke of their childhood and youth 
so happily spent in the court, of the pleasant evenings by the 
fountain, when Angelique sang, and Louis listened; yet he 
touched so many tender chords, and managed the matter so 
skilfully, that ere long Angelique drew forth a little white 
pocket-handkerchief, which she applied to her eyes, whilst 
Louis turned his head away, and pretended to look into the 
court. M. Gant immediately followed up his advantage, and 
in less than five minutes had effected an entire reconciliation 
between the two lovers, who, to say the truth, were not sorry 
for it. 

“ And now,” said he, “ that it is all over, you must tell me 
what you quarrelled about.” This was, however, seemingly 
no easy matter to determine. Louis looked at Angelique and 
Angelique at Louis ; both were evidently in doubt on the sub¬ 
ject. But M. Gant was a shrewd cross-questioner, and he soon 
elicited from Louis that he had long been secretly jealous of 
the young tailor, and that one evening, when Angelique had 
provoked him by some unusual attention bestowed on his 
rival, he had spitefully declared a new purchase of hers 
odiously vulgar; an expression which, being uttered in the 
presence of several persons, the tailor included, had so mor¬ 
tally offended Angelique, that she had instantly resolved to 
discard him for ever. 

“ And this,” observed M. Gant, in a tone of great con¬ 
tempt, after hearing them out—■“ this was the cause of your 
quarrel ? ” Though somewhat abashed, they confessed it was. 
But the scrivener was not satisfied; he had his own ideas on 
the subject; and indeed it soon came out that the applewoman 
was at the bottom of it all. With her usual malice she had 
first diverted the young tailor’s attention from Marianne to 
Angelique ; then by dark hints excited poor Louis’s jealousy ; 
and at last persuaded Angelique that no woman of spirit ought 
to forgive the affront she had endured. In short, she had, 
like all mischievous persons, been so very industrious in her 
evil task, that M. Gant no longer wondered at the trouble the 
quarrel of the two lovers had given him. 

After some further conversation, Louis and Angelique 
rose to depart, not, however, without hearing M. Gant, who 
addressed them in a little set speech, rather formal and pedan¬ 
tic, but nevertheless kind and sensible, showing them that the 
real cause of their quarrel had been the want of mutual trust 


292 


SEVEN YEARS. 


and confidence. “ And now, children,” said he, as he con¬ 
cluded, “ take an old man’s advice—quarrel no more, and be 
ever more ready to believe good of one another than evil.” 

Promising to follow this advice, and once more warmly 
thanking him for his kindness, the lovers now left the scriven¬ 
er to his own reflections. Scarcely were they gone, when M. 
Gant, who felt in a very undignified hurry to impart the news 
to Sergeant Huron, locked up his box before the usual time, 
and hastened to the abode of his trusty friend, who, listening 
to his prolix narrative with profound gravity, declared it was 
an admirable bit of campaigning, and that the scrivener had 
displayed the tactics of a general. 

Although she was not at her stall when Louis and Ange- 
lique had their interview in the scrivener’s abode, the apple- 
woman had somehow or other obtained a knowledge of the 
fact. The next day she saw, as usual, M. Gant enter his box 
in the morning, but with the addition of a large parcel, which 
he carried under his arm; and a strange rumbling noise, as 
though M. Gant felt restless, and was walking to and fro in 
his mansion, followed his entrance; it, however, gradually 
subsided; and before long, he issued forth completely trans¬ 
formed, clad in a suit of rusty black, with a new hat and a 
white cravats The applewoman’s heart failed her : she had 
forebodings of a defeat. After carefully locking his door, M. 
Gant walked at a stately pace towards the washerwoman’s 
shop. Whether by chance, or because she was aware of his 
visit, Angelique was out of the way. The scrivener gravely 
asked for her mother, and found the good lady up to her eyes 
in soap-water. She looked upon him with some surprise, 
opened her eyes when he spoke of a private interview, in¬ 
wardly wondered if he wanted to give her his custom, and 
wiping her hands and arms in a very wet apron, led the way 
into the small back parlour. Here M. Gant gravely expound¬ 
ed to her the nature of his errand, relating all concerning the 
attachment of Louis and Angelique, and, in the name of his 
young friend, asking for her sanction to their attachment. 
The washerwoman heard him, and was astonished. What 
could make Angelique wish to marry ? She had always 
thought that if a woman washed, and ironed, and worked 
hard, she had little time to think of marriage : so she had 
found since her husband’s death. Nevertheless, she was not 
unreasonable, and declared that as Louis was a very honest, 
industrious young man, she should raise no objection to the 
match, if her daughter was bent upon it. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


293 


On the same evening the whole matter was settled. In 
the presence of her mother, of Louis’s parents, whom the 
young man had consulted long ago, and of M. Gant, Ange- 
lique was accordee , or granted to Louis, who presented her 
with a gold ring and a handsome pair of earrings. The mar¬ 
riage was fixed to take place at the end of a month. The 
young couple were to reside in the court; and, to her mother’s 
satisfaction, it was agreed that Angelique should continue to 
work with her. 

The applewoman was now fairly vanquished. Truth and 
M. Gant had triumphed: Louis and Angelique were recon¬ 
ciled : and even the young tailor proved penitent, and hum¬ 
bled himself to Marianne, who graciously received him once 
more into her favour. The scrivener’s spiteful little enemy 
could bear this no longer; her heart was stung every day by 
some fresh insult; she declared that the court was in a league 
against her ; and in order to be revenged on them all at once, 
she went off one morning with her stall and her apples, and 
doubtless settled in some very remote corner, for she has never 
since been heard of. Some old cronies of hers, with whom she 
constantly quarrelled while in the court, soon missed her very 
much, for she was the great newsmonger of the place; and 
they threw out dark hints against the scrivener, even averring 
that he had caused her to be spirited away. 

M. Gant, who knew nothing of these vague rumors, bore 
his triumph with great moderation. Indeed, with his usual 
simplicity, he rather missed the applewoman, and certainly 
thought more of the happiness enjoyed by Louis and Angelique 
than of her defeat. When the wedding took place, he was the 
spirit of the whole party: he acted as Louis’s witness at the 
civil contract, gave the bride away in the church, settled every 
doubtful point of etiquette, and with Sergeant Huron, who 
had been invited out of compliment to him, sang such witty 
songs after dinner, that everybody was charmed. The scrivener 
himself was astonished, and somewhat ashamed; he was even 
heard by his old friend wondering what had induced a philos¬ 
opher like him to meddle in a silly love affair; but, to say 
the truth, he was quite delighted. 

The married life of Louis and Angelique proved more 
happy than their courtship. They treasured up the words of 
their old friend, and acted towards each other with confidence 
and truth. M. Gant, whose infirmities increased with his age, 
has been induced, not to abandon his box—nothing earthly 
could make him do that—but to take his meals with them, in 


294 


SEVEN YEARS. 


return for which he most zealously teaches their children how 
to read and write, so that they will most probably be able in 
time to indite their own love-letters. Sergeant Huron is still 
alive, but, as the scrivener observes in a melancholy tone, 
growing rather weak-minded—a remark which the worthy 
sergeant sometimes applies in turn to his old friend. The 
cobbler has retired from business; the shed has been de¬ 
molished, and a shop, occupied by Louis’s brother, erected 
where it once stood. Marianne is married to the young tailor. 
The washerwoman is as industrious as ever. We forgot men¬ 
tioning that, as an instance of the diminished faculties of his 
friend, Sergeant Huron has informed Angelique that M. Gant 
is convinced the applewoman will soon make her reappearance 
in the court. This he believes on philosophical grounds, 
averring that he has been too long happy and undisturbed. 
Of course Sergeant Huron is above this learned nonsense; 
but he has also informed Angelique, from whom he can con¬ 
ceal nothing, that, after all, he should not wonder if it were to 
turn out true; for since his friend mentioned the subject, he 
has three times beheld in a dream the applewoman seated at 
her stall. But as six months have already passed away since 
then, it is somewhat doubtful if she will ever make her ap¬ 
pearance. 




THE TROUBLES OF A QUIET MAN. 

CHAPTER I. 

It is generally supposed that a quiet temper is conducive 
of a quite life. But this is a great mistake, originating in that 
love of common place which seems inherent to human nature. 
No man could be quieter than Theophile Durand ; few men, 
according to his own account, and he was strictly veracious, 
have passed through such tribulation as fell to his lot. 

When they began no one knows. He has forgotten it him¬ 
self, and when they will end it is impossible to divine. Out 
of this remarkable series we will make a few extracts, show¬ 
ing by what unmerited causes a quiet man became involved in 
trouble. 

Theophile Durand was an employe, and the employe, or 
individual employed in any of the government offices, forms in 




SEVEN YEARS. 


295 


France, or rather in Paris, part of a class distinct in itself, and 
different from anything of the same kind here. Every one in 
Paris knows the employe, his feelings, habits, and external 
signs. There is something stereotyped and utterly unmis¬ 
takable about the man. Method in matters of feeling, and 
sobriety of demeanour, are his two grand characteristics through¬ 
out life. 

To this peaceable and timid class belonged Theophile Du¬ 
rand, the gentlest of gentle employes. Never did the in¬ 
nocent passion of caligraphy burn with purer flame than in his 
harmless bosom. To transcribe in fair and legible characters 
whatever his chef set before him, was the glory and triumph of 
Theophile. Twenty years of his life were devoted to this im¬ 
portant occupation; from nine in the morning until five in the 
afternoon he assiduously bent over the official desk, and longed 
for no wider horizon than that of the dull court-yard of the gov¬ 
ernment office. He was not promoted in rank, nor did he 
receive any increase of emolument, but he was not an ambitious 
man; his wants were few, and none ever heard him complain, 
for in his office as yet trouble had not overtaken him. 

This happy existence was at length disturbed by the in¬ 
troduction of a new desk and stool in the quiet bureau, where 
for years no stranger had appeared. The owner of these por¬ 
tentous signs added to Monsieur Theophile Durand’s sense of 
dismay by his unofficial appearance ; he was a very young man, 
with something resembling a moustache struggling into exist¬ 
ence above his upper lip. He had a thin, sallow, and melan¬ 
choly, not to say morose-looking, face, and a slender drooping 
figure. All that Monsieur Theophile could ascertain of him 
was, that he rejoiced in the name of Auguste Tondu, and en¬ 
tered the office as surnumeraire; that is to say that he belonged 
to the class of unpaid employes, condemned to wait for their 
salary until death or promotion shall make some place vacant 
in the ranks of their companions. 

The desk of the surnumeraire faced that of Theophile, to 
stare at whom seemed from the yery first day his chief task 
and occupation. He did, indeed, occasionally vary it by suck¬ 
ing and nibbling every pen that came in his way, or by mak¬ 
ing little balls of the official paper, which he entertained him¬ 
self by masticating, and to all appearances, by swallowing; 
but beyond this he did nothing. 

The presence of this idle and enigmatical individual, whom 
he vainly endeavoured to draw into occasional discourse, awed 
and annoyed Theophile Durand. If he ever looked up from 


296 


SEVEN YEARS. 


his desk it was to see Auguste Tondu sucking a pen and look¬ 
ing at him intently. This happened so often, that at length 
Theophile resolved to look up no more ; but this only rendered 
matters worse, as he had a ceaseless consciousness that the sur- 
numeraire’s eye never left him; a fact of which he became 
firmly convinced, when once raising his eyes by chance, he 
met the same dull and apparently eternal glance fastened on 
him still. From that moment Theophile resigned himself to 
the decrees of fate. He felt a trouble at hand. 

Six months had passed away. Time had tended to weaken 
those first unpleasant impressions, and Theophile had grown 
accustomed to the presence of Auguste Tondu. One afternoon, 
as the clock struck five, he rose as usual from his stool, wiped 
his pen, put away his papers, slowly pulled off the black glazed 
calico sleeves destined to protect the cloth of his coat, and was 
stretching out his hand toward his hat, when a sepulchral voice 
said : 

“ Monsieur Durand, will you be good enough to tell me ho\y 
long this is to last % ” 

It was Auguste Tondu, the only employe besides Monsieur 
Durand remaining in the office, who had spoken. Theophile 
remained mute. He was in too great a state of surprise at the 
unexpected query to think of answering it. 

“ Sir,” disdainfully resumed the young man, “ I perceive 
you are dull of apprehension. My meaning is this. I have 
been deluded into the acceptance of this place of surnumeraire 
under the impression that you would speedily die or get pro¬ 
moted ; but, sir, you are doing neither one thing nor the other. 
I have waited six months; my patience is exhausted, and I 
want to know how long this is going to last ? ” 

“ Sir,” rather agitatedly replied Theophile, “ you wish to 
know more than I can tell. If my chef is willing to promote 
me I am quite willing to be promoted, that is all I can say.” 

“ And you know nothing about the other thing'? ” 

“ No, sir, I do not.” 

“ Upon your word, sir ! ” continued Auguste, with a suspi¬ 
cious look that implied he thought Monsieur Theophile better 
informed on this subject than he chose to confess. 

“ Upon my word, sir, I know nothing about it; and I may 
add, sir, that I am not at all inquisitive ; I really have no wish 
to know.” 

u Well, sir,” resumed Auguste, with an oblique look, “ you 
are on your guard; you know that you stand in my way— 
enough.” 


SEVEN YEARS. 


297 


Monsieur Theophile uneasily inquired into the exact nature 
ot his meaning, but the only reply he received was the enig¬ 
matic “enough,” sententiously repeated. He was going to 
retire in a most anxious foreboding state of mind, when Auguste 
exclaimed, with something like pathos : 

“ Sir, listen to me, I beseech you. I must unburthen my 
mind to some one. I have conceived a particular affection for 
you. Again I say, hear me ! ” 

Why did the tender-hearted Theophile listen to this insid¬ 
ious prayer ? but there was the mischief: he must needs be 
kind and obliging. 

Auguste continued: 

“ You behold in me the victim of circumstances; a wretched, 
yes, sir, a thoroughly wretched man.” 

He did look very desperate as he pursued : “ Life is dull, 
sir, dreadfully dull. I want excitement, genuine excitement. 
It is a want of my nature ; but I cannot get it, and no one will 
help me to it. Will you % ” 

“ Sir, be pleased to particularize,” gravely replied TI160- 
phile, “ and I shall see what I can do.” 

“ Sir, you can do nothing; I have been placed here by a 
perfidious uncle of mine, who declared you were going to die 
or be promoted. Accordingly I find this place narrow. In¬ 
deed, the whole world is narrow. I have sought, I may say 
that I have hunted, for the ideal and never found it. Life is 
prose, sir, from the beginning to the end of the chapter.” 

Monsieur Theophile smiled : he began to understand his 
companion. 

“ You want excitement,” he said, still smiling; “ get mar¬ 
ried, my friend, get married.” 

Monsieur Tondu seemed to think the remedy a desperate 
one indeed, for he growled something or other, and looked 
suspicious. 

“ Why did you not marry? ” he asked. 

“Because I do not like excitement” was the composed 

reply. 

“ Are you sent by my uncle ? ” asked Tondu, still sus¬ 
picious. 

Monsieur Durand replied that he had not the honour of 
knowing Monsieur Tondu’s uncle. „ 

“ Well, I do not object to marriage by way of a change,” 
said Monsieur Tondu; “ indeed I feel that to be loved by a 
lovely woman would calm me down. I have a handsome ioi- 
tune of my own, which my uncle cannot keep from me, and I 

13 * 


298 


SEVEN YEAKS. 


do not care about a dot. No, a beautiful, adoring creature, 
young and accomplished, is all I want.” 

“ How would you like her to be ? ” asked Monsieur Durand, 
“ dark or fair ? ” 

“ Fair, fair ! ” exclaimed Monsieur Tondu, with a vivacity 
that scouted the mere idea of raven locks. “Fair, but by no 
means red! ” 

“ Blue eyes,” suggested Theophile. 

“ Ah! heavenly blue! ” ejaculated Auguste “ celestial 
colour! ” 

“ A fair complexion ? ” 

“ Lilies and roses! ” 

“A sweet temper? ” 

“ A sweet temper! ” repeated Auguste, “ Monsieur Durand, 
when shall I see her ? ” 

“ Softly, softly,” said Monsieur Durand, nodding, “ I must 
speak to her mother first, and to her.” 

“ Tell her I adore her already,” enthusiastically exclaimed 
the young man ; “ tell her—” 

“ Softly, softly, you are not of age. May I know if you 
are free to marry as you choose?” 

“ I have ten thousand francs a year, and I shall be twenty- 
five next month,” composedly replied Monsieur Tondu; “only 
let me see this angel—what is her name ? ” 

“ Virginie.” 

“ Only let me see Virginie then, and everything is well.” 

“ You cannot see Virginie before a week,” replied Monsieur 
Durand ; in-the meanwhile I trust you will be silent.” 

“ As the grave,” was the solemn reply, and on that under¬ 
standing they parted. 

“ He looks rather young for Virginie,” thought Monsieur 
Durand, as he walked home, “ but ten thousand francs a year 
will make him seem lovely. It is plain, too, that he will make 
my cousin happy, but prudence, common prudence, requires 
that I should make a few inquiries before we proceed in this 
matter.” 

Monsieur Durand loved plain dealing in all things. Noth¬ 
ing plainer and more straightforward now occurred to him 
than to step round to M. Tondu, senior, and sound him con¬ 
cerning the worldly prospects of his imaginative nephew. 

Monsieur Tondu the elder was a very old gentleman, who 
lived in an old house, and whom Monsieur Durand found 
sneezing and coughing by the fire-side. He wore a green 
shade to protect his eyes, and sat with his hands on his knees. 


SEVEN YEAKS. 


299 


From beneath his shade he peered at Monsieur Durand, and 
feebly inquired into his errand. 

“ I am come,” began Monsieur Durand, with a mysterious 

air. 

“ Sir,” interrupted the old gentleman, with a cautious fore¬ 
finger, “ sir, take care. I can stand no emotion, no agitation.” 

“ I trust neither to move nor to agitate you,” replied Mon¬ 
sieur Durand. “ I am come—” 

“ Does it relate to money ?” interrupted the old gentleman ; 
6i I w r arn you that I neither give nor lend.” 

“I never ask or borrow,” replied Theophile, with great 
dignity ; “ please to hear me.” 

This seemed no easy matter to obtain; for first of all the 
old gentleman felt sure that there was a draught, then 
that the chimney smoked, and it was only vdien Theophile 
was rising in despair, that the old gentleman said pettishly: 
“ Really, sir, this is very strange. I think you have been here 
quite long enough to let me know your errand. 

“ Sir,” began Theophile, sitting down, and peering myste¬ 
riously into the old gentleman’s face, “ you have a nephew.” 

Here a very red-haired lady of some thirty odd years, 
whom Monsieur Durand had not noticed before, looked from 
the window where she sat working, and said in rather a mas¬ 
culine voice: 

“Well, sir, what if my father has a nephew? are you too 
come to abuse the poor boy % ” 

“ Oh, her! not a very good character, I fear! ” thought 
Monsieur Durand, “ I did well to come,” But, though he in¬ 
wardly congratulated himself on his shrewdness, he declared 
aloud that he came not to breed family strife, or report evil of 
the youthful Tondu. 

“I only came,” lie added blandly, “to inquire into a few 
particulars, such as his age, and the precise epoch when he is 
to begin and enjoy those ten thousand francs a year.” 

“ Sir, you are very indiscreet,” said the red-haired lady, 
rising as if to leave the room; “ my cousin’s age and income 
are no business of yours.” 

“ Sir,” said the old gentleman, raising a shaking forefinger, 
«if that boy has signed bills they are so much waste paper ; 
his debts I will never pay, and he is only a child of nineteen 
according to law.” 

« Nineteen! ” exclaimed Monsieur Durand, “ he told me 
he was twenty-five, and that he was coming in to ten thousand 
francs a year next month.” 


300 


SEVEN YEARS. 


u Outrageous, indelicate ! ” exclaimed the red-haired lady, 
who darted angry looks at her father. “ You ought not to be 
answered, sir.” But not heeding her, the old gentleman pur¬ 
sued : 

“ He is nineteen, sir; a lazy, good-for-nothing boy, whom 
I keep out of charity, who has not a sou of his own. If he 
owes you money, sir, you may bid adieu to it; you will never 
get it.” 

“ He owes me nothing,” impatiently replied Monsieur Du¬ 
rand ; “ I only want to know when he comes in to those ten 
thousand francs a year.” 

“ And I insist on knowing your motive for making that 
extraordinary inquiry,” said the lady, with something like 
majesty. 

u Yes,” said the old gentleman, “ we want to know.” 

Looking as dignified as either of them, Th6ophile began : 

“ Monsieur Auguste Tondu, having expressed to me the 
want of excitement under which he labours, I advised him to 
marry.” 

“ Very good advice,” said the lady. 

“ He assured me he did not care for money : he only wanted 
beauty and love.” 

The lady nodded. 

“ I accordingly proposed my cousin Yirginie Martin.” 

“ Go on, sir,” said the lady. 

“ A beautiful girl, with whom he fell in love on my de¬ 
scription.” 

“ Go on.” 

“ For she is fair, not red, and very charming.” 

u Go on, sir.” 

11 1 am going on,” said Theophile, a little impatient at this 
needless spurring, “ they are to meet in a week; to meet will 
be to love, but A^irginie has no money, and I wish to know the 
truth of Monsieur Tondu’s assertion: is he to enter next month 
on ten thousand francs a year ? ” 

“ Go on,” grimly said the lady. 

“ I will not,” indignantly replied Theophile; “ I have said 
all I had to say.” 

“ Sir, I warned you not to agitate me,” exclaimed the old 
gentleman, and throwing himself back in his chair, he fell into 
a fit. The lady screamed, and instead of rushing to her father 
went into violent hysterics. 

All presence of mind forsook Monsieur Durand. Instead 
of assisting his victims, he flew to the door, flew down the stair- 


SEVEN YEARS. 


301 


case, and flew along the street, to the confusion and amazement 
of all quiet passengers. 

We will not describe Monsieur Durand’s state of mind. 
He felt, he knew that he had committed some dreadful mistake, 
he dreaded meeting the deceitful Tondu, who had led him into 
all this trouble, and yet meet him he must. Carefully, when 
that individual entered, did he glance up from his desk, anxious¬ 
ly did he endeavour to read in his face the story of the preced¬ 
ing day’s adventure. 

Auguste Tondu’s face was black as night, but as he gave 
him, Theophile, no particular share of attention, our friend 
concluded that, so far as he was concerned, all was right. 

He was congratulating himself on his escape, and prepar¬ 
ing to depart as four struck, when, with upraised hand, Mon¬ 
sieur Tondu said : “ Stop ! ” 

“ Stop ! ” he repeated, u I have something to say to you.” 

“ Tell it to me as we go along,” suggested Monsieur Du¬ 
rand, managing to reach the door. 

“ Right, I shall go home with you,” replied Auguste Ton¬ 
du, taking his arm. 

There was no help for it, so Monsieur Durand submitted. 
As they walked together, Monsieur Tondu said significantly: 

“ Have you ever had an enemy ? No. Well, I was scarcely 
born when my enemy began. He is my own cousin, much 
older than myself, and a monster. We had not heard of him 
for a long time, but yesterday he appeared again—but first let 
me explain a few matters. I have been reared by a benevolent 
uncle, whom I revere, and I am to marry his daughter, a beau¬ 
tiful young creature, whom I doat on, and who has ten thou¬ 
sand francs a year of her own—you understand ? ” 

“ Quite,” replied Theophile Durand, u your cousin is the 
lady I saw yesterday, and who—” 

“ You never saw her,” interrupted Monsieur Tondu, with 
some sternness, “ neither say nor think so. Do not speak: 
let me go on. Well, sir, my cousin, after being a long time 
invisible, appeared again yesterday. To my revered uncle he 
painted me in the most odious colours : as a spendthrift, in 
short, as a wretch : to my adored cousin, he spoke of me as a 
faithless lover, speculating on her fortune to marry another 
woman. In short, sir, the monster did not leave the house 
until my uncle was in a fit and my cousin in hysterics. On 
returning home I found them in that pitiable condition. Well, 
sir, what do you think of having an enemy ? ” 

Monsieur Durand was a quiet man. “ Sir,” he said du- 


302 


SEVEN YEARS. 


biously, “ how do you know it was your cousin worked all this 
mischief ? ” 

With the utmost composure Auguste Tondu replied : 

u He took an assumed name, something like Bertrand le 
Grand, but my cousin, who has wonderful perspicacity, recog¬ 
nised him from the first. We have given a description of him 
to the Commissaire de Police, and he informed us this morning 
that he is on the track.” 

“ Sir,” said Monsieur Durand, with great dignity, “ I scorn 
the falsehood. I will not betray you, but I scorn the false¬ 
hood.” 

A fierce and malignant look was Auguste Tondu’s reply. 

u You wish for war,” he said ominously. “ Well, then, war 
you shall have.” 

Here Theophile’s heart failed him. He remembered the 
manifold opportunities his enemy would possess of annoying 
him. He already felt pins in his stool, and saw blotches of 
ink on his fair-written sheet. His proud spirit gave in. 

“ Well, sir,” he said desperately, 11 1 yield, yes, sir. Your 
male cousin is a wretch, and your female cousin an angel.” 

“ Whom you have never seen,” suggested Auguste. 

“ Never,” said Theophile, who soothed his conscience with 
the gentle equivocation that the red-haired lady who said “ go 
on ” was not at all like an angel. 

Thus ended this trouble ! with peace, it is true, but with 
peace bought on such ignominious terms, that they rankled in 
Theophile’s mind. He could not endure the sight of Auguste 
Tondu; he could not meet with patience that deceiver’s im¬ 
pudent look; in short, he could have no peace of mind until, on 
his own request, he was transferred to another room. Here he 
breathed freely and felt happy, until he made some bitter dis¬ 
coveries, not the least irritating of which was, that his new 
stool was in a constant and refreshing draught. The other 
annoyances he had to bear, such as the employes’ conspiring 
not to let him see the newspaper, or uniting in an amiable plot 
to exclude from him the heat of the stove in winter, he thought 
little of: they were the result of that trouble to which, from 
the name of its originator, he gave the name of Tondu. “ My 
Tondu trouble ” he called it in that private autography which, 
like every human being, he daily wrote for his own perusal, on 
the broad sheets of memory. 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


303 


CHAPTER II. 

The second trouble of the quiet man, second on our list, 
hundredth on his, was even more formidable than that which 
we have related, and ought to be a warning to all quiet, pru¬ 
dent persons. 

Monsieur Durand had a cousin, a widowed lady, named Mine. 
Martin, who had a daughter named Yirginie, whom Monsieur 
Durand was extremely anxious to see fairly married; per¬ 
haps because her mother dropped such strange pertinacious 
hints, that he could not possibly misunderstand their meaning: 
she wanted him to marry Yirginie. Now though Yirginie 
was amiable, good, and pretty, Monsieur Durand loved celibacy 
too tenderly to think of relinquishing her company for that of 
mortal woman, and he hunted out husbands with a praiseworthy 
pertinacity, that endeared him to the mother, and made him 
thoroughly odious to the daughter. 

His cousin, Madame Martin, a thin and sharp little woman, 
resided in one of the quiet Paris streets, one of those streets 
where the houses have shady gardens, full of lilacs and labur¬ 
nums ; streets daily becoming more scarce. Opposite her re¬ 
sided, in one of those embowered houses, her friend Madame 
Legrand, a comfortable woman in every sense of the word, who 
now and then had a superfluous floor to let. 

Neither in person nor in circumstances were the two friends 
alike; but they had one point of resemblance, they were both 
u women of the world.” At least they said so, to each other 
especially. 

If Madame Legrand gave a cosy little dinner to a quiet 
little circle of friends, and if instead of asking Madame Mar¬ 
tin and her pretty daughter Yirginie, she asked the two cross, 
but rich, old maids opposite, she was the first to tell her friend 
of it, with the following engaging frankness : 

“ You see, my dear Madame Martin, I would much sooner 
have had you and that dear little Yirginie, but what can one 
do ? those two old creatures are always loading me with pre¬ 
serves; it was only last week they sent me a bottle of noyau, 
and another of ratafia; and then, my dear Madame Martin, 
though I do not care one pin about them, yet I am an old 
woman of the world—that’s the truth of it.” 

Far from being or showing herself offended, Madame Mar¬ 
tin admired her friend, and approved her warmly. “ Quite 


304 


SEVEN YEARS. 


right,” she replied with emphatic nod and tone, “ quite right; 
that, and no other, was the way to get on through life. 
She was an old woman of the world herself, and would have 
done just the same. Invite her and Virginie ! why so ? What 
was there to gain by them she should like to know ? No, 
no, ask the donors of preserves, noyau, and ratafia by all 
means.” 

Thanks to this philosophic indulgence, the two ladies went 
on wonderfully well. It is true that occasionally—not more 
than five or six times a year—Madame Martin would lay va¬ 
rious little plots and schemes, rather tending to injure the 
comforts or interests of Madame Legrand; to deprive her of a 
good.dinner, or prevent her furnished apartment from being 
let, but even when the said plots and schemes were brought 
home to her in the most evident manner, she scorned to look 
disconcerted. 

“ She was an old woman of the world,” she said, triumph¬ 
antly. This explained everything. 

These two excellent friends had, however, set their heart 
on a common object: the marriage of Virginie Martin with 
some individual, no matter who, rich and high enough to be¬ 
come the husband of a pretty and charming girl. That Mad¬ 
ame Martin, who had only a very slender annuity, should wish 
to get her daughter advantageously married was natural 
enough, but that an old experienced woman of the world, like 
Madame Legrand, should trouble herself about the marriage 
of any girl, however charming, might seem strange, but for 
the following reasons. 

Madame Legrand was something of an epicure, and she 
liked a wedding dinner; then she also liked a handsome 
present, and every one knows, or ought to know, that the per¬ 
sons who help to tie the knot of a French marriage invariably 
receive a cadeau proportionate to the value of the bargain; for 
a bargain it is in every sense of the word. 

But notwithstanding the zeal of the two ladies, Virginie 
remained unmarried. In vain had the unhappy girl been 
actually offered—for it was no less—to every marriageable 
man in the vicinity, for the last three years; she was still 
Virginie Martin, and yet she was pretty, and, as we already 
said, very charming. 

Madame Martin was beginning to despair, and Madame 
Legrand had prophetically exclaimed that she should never 
partake of Virginie’s wedding dinner, when the former lady 


SEVEN YEAES. 


305 


made an unexpected discovery, which resuscitated her dying 
hopes, and filled her maternal heart with joy. 

“ Madame Legrand,” said she, entering her friend’s little 
parlour one afternoon, and addressing the other lady, who was 
taking her after-dinner repose near the open window, “ Mad¬ 
ame Legrand, we have been acquainted these twenty years; 
we are both old women of the world, and so what is the use of 
finessing with one another ? I might say I called here to see 
how you were after your bad cold, but I shall do no such 
thing; no, my good Madame Legrand, I call to tell you I am 
coming to dine to-morrow with you; Virginie, of course, ac¬ 
companies me. What do you think of that ? ” She folded 
her arms, and drew herself up with a triumphant air. Mad¬ 
ame Legrand coughed a reserved alarmed cough, and held her¬ 
self on the defensive. Her friend smiled and quietly con¬ 
tinued : 

“ I have already ordered a leg of mutton, and seen about 
the poultry and the dessert. But it shall be a very plain 
meal—extremely so. One must not overdo the thing, Madame 
Legrand.” 

Madame Legrand took an evasive half-dignified air. She 
did not exactly understand her friend. She was very dull of 
apprehension sometimes. Might she know exactly what 
Madame Martin meant? Madame Martin nodded ; confessed 
the request was reasonable, drew her chair nearer to that of 
her friend, took a confidential attitude, and whispered very 
significantly: 

u You see that gentleman walking in your little garden, do 
you not? ” 

u Yes, I see Monsieur Edouard Lefevre, my lodger.” 

“ Then you behold a most unhappy man. Look at him, is 
there not grief, yes, deep grief, written on that face ? ” 

11 Well, he does not look merry ; but what about it ? ” 

“ Merry ! I should like to know how a man who has lost 
two hundred thousand francs a year could look merry? ” 

Madame Legrand opened her eyes. Her friend smiled 
with the consciousness of superior knowledge, and laconically 
informed her that the simple unassuming man, who had been 
lodging with her for the last week, was no other than the rich 
Edouard Lef6vre from Lyons; that unhappy merchant who 
had recently lost in railroads the heavy sum above mentioned. 

u I had it all from my cousin, Theophile Durand,” she 
added, “ who had it all from M. Lefevre’s aunt, and who took 


306 


SEVEN YEARS. 


a fiacre to come and tell me that tlie unhappy man was here in 
your house endeavouring to calm his mind.” 

11 But what has all this to do with to-morrow’s dinner ? ” 
asked Madame Legrand, without losing sight of the original 
question. 

“ My dear friend, that unhappy man needs society; it will 
cheer him.” 

Madame Legrand looked sceptical. “ Well, it really is no 
use to feign with an old woman of the world like you,” said 
Madame Martin, with philosophic candour, “ the fact is, I want 
him to see Virginie.” 

“ But if he is bankrupt! A propos, I hope he will 
pay me ! ” 

“ Be quite easy,” replied Madame Martin, with a sagacious 
smile, 11 it is quite true he has lost two hundred thousand 
francs income—but then he has thirty thousand francs a year 
left. His aunt said so.” 

u I would not trust his aunt if I were you,” said Madame 
Legrand, looking uneasy; “ indeed, now that I know this I 
mean to ask him to pay in advance ; ay, and this evening too.” 

Madame Martin was greatly alarmed; it required all 
her eloquence and tact to persuade her friend that Monsieur 
Lefevre had really a handsome fortune left, but she at length 
succeeded; and, a much easier task, she convinced her that it 
was highly proper to give him a dinner at her, Madame Mar¬ 
tin’s, expense, in order to cheer him in his solitude. 

“ Virginie, do you mean to dress to-day?” drily said 
Madame Martin to her daughter, on the afternoon of the fol¬ 
lowing day. 

The young girl did not answer. She sat near the table, 
her brow rested on her folded hands ; her whole attitude sad, 
listless, and drooping. 

“ Come, make haste,” urged her mother, “ look at your 
dress ! how nice it is ! ” 

The young girl slowly raised her glance. She was a pretty, 
elegant blonde, with soft blue eyes and delicate features; but 
her look was troubled, and her face was pale. She gave a dis¬ 
tressed look at the clear white muslin robe her mother dis¬ 
played with evident complacency, then resumed her old 
attitude, and wept bitterly. The poor girl knew that dress 
well, far too well. To her it was the symbol of degradation, 
mortification, and shame. Whenever a new star dawned on 
the matrimonial horizon, Yirginie Martin had to put on the 
clear white muslin—nothing became her so well—and display 


SEVEN YEARS. 


307 


to the best advantage whatever attractions nature had given 
her. Her whole soul revolted against this, but her mother 
was inflexible, and poor Yirginie was gentle and pretty—she 
always yielded. On the present occasion she proved more 
than usually rebellious. 

“ I cannot and I will not,” she passionately cried, 
“ Heaven help me ! is there nothing I can do ? let me be a 
milliner, a dressmaker, anything you like, but let me earn my 
bread, and not do such things.” Broken sobs impeded her 
utterance. 

“ A milliner, a dressmaker ! ” exclaimed Madame Martin, 
with sorrowful indignation, u and it is my daughter, Yirginie 
Martin, who has such ideas, such sentiments ! For shame ! ” 

u I am not ashamed of them,” replied the young girl, look¬ 
ing up with flushed cheek and kindling glance, “ but I am 
ashamed whenever I put on that abominable dress.” 

“ An exquisite white muslin, emblem of virgin innocence, 
and youthful freshness, and transparency of feeling; she calls 
it abominable ! ” 

“ Yes, abominable ! for whenever I have put it on it has 
been to see mvself olfered to some man or other. Good lieav- 
ens ! the thought of it makes me feel hot! When will women 
cease to be so cheap ? ” 

“ When they have money,” philosophically replied the old 
woman of the world ; u I am really ashamed of your ignorance, 
Yirginie ; my daughter, not to know better ! As to your being 
4 offered,’ as you choose to call it, I do not see how it can be 
helped, whilst men are what they are. Entre nous, my dear, 
men are regular Turks, and every man thinks himself a Sultan 
at the very least. They like to have women offered to them, 
and to pick and choose. My dear, let them ; ive get the best 
of it in the end, and, as tHe old proverb says: those who laugh 
last laugh best. So put on your dress, and look as pretty as 
you can.” 

A fresh burst of tears was the only reply this maternal ex¬ 
hortation received. 

44 That is it! ” indignantly exclaimed Madame Martin, 
44 cry, redden your eyes, make yourself look pale, ill, and sulky, 
as you always do on those occasions; no wonder the men will 
not have so wan and lachrymose a creature ! Come, do you 
mean to put on that dress ? ” 

Yirginie shook her head. 44 She could not,” she said, 44 she 
felt she could not.” Madame Martin was too old a woman of 
the world not to know the value of a little pathos now and 


308 


SEVEN YEARS. 


then. She therefore burst into tears, and lamented her fate 
in pathetic accents. u She had a daughter, and had reared 
her up for this ! She had done everything to get her married, 
was it her fault if men were not willing ? She had carried 
her maternal devotion to the point of laying out twenty francs 
—it would not come to less—for a dinner to be given by 
Madame Legrand, in order that Virginie might meet Monsieur 
Lefevre, and now Virginie would not go, and ho(r money was 
thrown away, and she was a most unhappy mother ! ” 

Virginie resisted a while longer, but at length this matter 
ended, as usual, by her putting on the white muslin, and agree¬ 
ing to accompany her mother. 

On entering the little parlour of Madame Legrand, Madame 
Martin was struck with dismay to perceive two ladies, one 
young, and a very pretty brunette, already seated there. 
Madame Legrand apologetically whispered that her sister-in- 
law and niece having unexpectedly called upon her, she could 
not, of course, do less than ask them to dinner, but then, of 
course, she would divide the expenses with her friend. 

Madame Martin was too old a woman of the world to be¬ 
lieve a word of this. The sister-in-law and niece resided ten 
leagues away, they called twice a year on Madame Legrand; 
never more; they had evidently been summoned post haste, 
lest such a prize should go out of the family. It was as clear 
as noonday. Even for an old woman of the world this was 
rather hard to bear, and then, to make matters worse, this 
perfidious Madame Legrand had made the young girls sit side 
by side. How could the pale, inanimate Virginie stand a 
comparison with the brilliant bloom and engaging vivacity of 
her rival ? Madame Martin internally gave it up, and waited 
with the resignation of despair for the entrance of Monsieur 
Lefevre. But Monsieur Lefevre did not come. “ A sudden 
fit of indisposition deprived him of the pleasure of dining with 
the ladies.” 

Madame Legrand looked disconcerted ; her niece pouted; 
Madame Martin triumphed, and Virginie looked enchanted 
and charming. Believed from the dreadful apprehension of 
meeting the stranger, she became so gay and pretty, that 
Madame Martin sighed to think how very provoking it was in 
her never to look so at the proper times. She gave her a good 
lecture on the subject in the garden, whither they all repaired 
after dinner. Madame Legrand, her sister-in-law, and niece, 
held a consultation apart, whilst Madame Martin and Virginie 
were unceremoniously left to their own society. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


309 


“ Virginie,” patlietically said the maman, “ do you wish to 
break my heart ? ” 

“ Is it my fault, maman, if Monsieur Lefevre was ill ? ” 

“ But if he had come, good gracious, if he had come! 
Why, when the door opened once, you sank back on your seat 
white and trembling. For heaven’s sake—I hope you feel 
better, sir,” she suddenly added, in a soft, insinuating voice. 

Virginie looked up, and perceived a serious-looking man 
of thirty or so standing near them. He paused on being thus 
addressed, and though not without a keen look of surprise at 
the elder lady, he politely thanked her, and said that he felt 
much better indeed. He looked inclined to walk on, but 
Madame Martin was not going to let him escape thus; she 
gently compelled Virginie to resume the place by her side 
which the young girl had shrinkingly left. The path was nar¬ 
row, Monsieur Lefevre could not attempt to move on without 
evident rudeness ; he did not seek to do so, but whilst Madame 
Martin assailed him with a torrent of fluent speech, he looked 
at her daughter with much attention. Evening was closing in, 
but they stood face to face within a few paces of each other : 
he could see her well. Virginie was not pale now; she was 
crimson; indeed her agitation was so evident, that it was that, 
much more than her beauty, which attracted the gentleman’s 
attention. He asked himself with some wonder what there 
was in his presence to produce such emotion, and if all Pari¬ 
sian girls were so. He was not left long in doubt, for Mad¬ 
ame Martin having imprudently raised her voice, the sound 
reached the ears of Madame Legrand, who rushed panting to 
the rescue with her blooming, smiling niece. Monsieur Lefe¬ 
vre looked annoyed, but he was now fairly surrounded ; there 
was no help for it. He submitted with tolerable composure; 
walked up and down the garden with the ladies, and probably 
began to understand something of what was going on, for, as 
he saw Madame Legrand bring forward her niece on every oc¬ 
casion, and Madame Martin pertinaciously offer poor Virginie 
to his notice, a scarcely perceptible, though sarcastic, smile 
appeared once or twice on his pale firm lips. 

“ I think we had better go in,” at length kindly said 
Madame Legrand, who perceived with some alarm that her 
guest looked rather more at the pale Virginie than at her bril¬ 
liant niece, “ that dear Virginie is so delicate that the night 
air might affect her ; indeed she looks very pale as it is ! ” 

Madame Martin indignantly begged to inform her friend 


SEVEN YEARS. 


310 

that the health of Yirginie was excellent. Virginie had never 
been ill since she had the measles. 

u Which must have been a good while ago,” charitably said 
Madame Legrand. 

Madame Martin scorned to answer the calumny. It re¬ 
futed itself or rather Yirginie’s youthful face refuted it 
completely. 

They went in ; Madame Legrand asked her niece to sing, 
and Mademoiselle unhesitatingly attacked a magnificent solo, 
in which she introduced a few superfluous ornaments, that did 
very well indeed. 

u I believe Mademoiselle Martin does not sing?” kindly 
said Madame Legrand. 

“ Yes she does,” shortly replied her indignant mother. 

Yirginie gave her a look of terror. She never had sung in 
company in her life, and knew nothing of music. But her 
mother was roused and pitiless. She led her to the piano, and 
stood by her side to encourage her, and, if needs were, to en¬ 
force obedience. Yirginie made an attempt, but her voice 
broke down almost immediately. £k There, you have finished 
it now,” savagely whispered her mother, hurrying her out of 
the room amidst the ill-repressed titter of the Legrands. 

It certainly did not appear that M. Theophile Durand had 
any particular share in the disasters of this day, save as the 
originator of the campaign which ended in such signal defeat. 
But this proved enough, and more than enough, for mother 
and daughter. Yirginie scarcely reached home when she threw 
herself into a chair, burst into tears, and exclaimed: “ I de¬ 
test Monsieur Durand.” 

“ A mean, spiritless fellow to allow his female relatives to 
be insulted in that way ! ” cried Madame Martin in an excit¬ 
ed tone ; “ but he shall see, he shall see ! ” She resumed her 
bonnet and shawl, which she had put away, and left the room 
without any other word. 

Monsieur Theophile Durand was in his first nap, when he 
was roused by a violent ringing and knocking at his room door; 
for his apartment consisted of one chamber and a closet. He 
sat up in bed and listened, slily feigning deafness. The ring¬ 
ing was violently repeated, and accompanied by something so 
like the kick of a shoe, that Monsieur Durand wrathfully cried 
out: 

“ Who is there ? ” 

“ Open, sir ! ” indignantly exclaimed the shrill voice of Ma¬ 
dame Martin. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


311 


Monsieur Durand chuckled with glee, to think that he had 
so good an excuse not to admit his cousin. 

11 My dear relative,” he sweetly replied, “ I should be 
charmed, delighted, to let you in, hut my night-cap is on. I 
need say no more to a lady of your quick and delicate percep¬ 
tions.” 

“ Your night-cap, sir ! how dare you talk of your night-cap 
to me ? What have I to do with it ? ” 

11 Nothing, thank heaven ! ” said Monsieur Durand in a low 
tone. 

“ Well, sir,” resumed Madame Martin’s voice, “ I shall go, 
as you do not choose to let me in. Indeed I have only this 
much to say. Having been so ill advised as to act on the in¬ 
formation you gave us, my daughter Virginie and I have been 
drawn into expense, and have received insults, from which 
you, sir, will not have the spirit to avenge us. Good night, sir.” 

Her voice was heard no more, and Monsieur Durand fell 
in a troubled sleep, from which he awoke three times in a cold 
perspiration, having dreamed each time that Madame Martin, 
after forcing her way into liis apartment, insisted no longer on 
his marrying Virginie, but on his marrying her , as a slight 
atonement for the many wrongs he had inflicted on her feelings 
and her pocket. 

Monsieur Theophile would have been calmer in his mind 
if he had known the unexpected turn affairs had taken. 

The feuds of Madame Legrand and Madame Martin never 
lasted. War is unprofitable, and these two old women of the 
world knew the value and the blessings of peace. 

Madame' Legrand quickly found out that her niece would 
not do, and veered back to Virginie, as a matter of course. 
Indeed, with such zeal did she enter into the plans she had 
done her best to frustrate, that she asked Virginie to spend a 
week with her. The young girl made some resistance, but it 
was not quite so strong as might have been expected from her 
previous reluctance to put on the white muslin. A word of 
authority from Madame Martin reduced her to obedience. 

For two days Madame Martin, who was supposed to be in 
the country, kept herself locked up. Early on the morning of 
the third day she slipped over to Madame Legrand’s, and was 
admitted to a mysterious interview in that lady’s bedroom. 

“ And how are matters going on ? ” asked Madame Martin. 

“ Well, well,” calmly replied Madame Legrand. “ Mon¬ 
sieur Lefevre is enamoured, I saw that from the first.” 


312 


SEVEN YEAES. 


“ And how does Virginie behave ? ” asked Madame Mar¬ 
tin : “ like a fool ? ” 

“ Not exactly. She does not give Monsieur Lefevre many 
opportunities of meeting her: but I rather fancy that her 
timidity and bashfulness are advantageous. He already lends 
her books.” 

“ That’s good,” approvingly said Madame Martin. 

“ Excellent. And now, my dear friend, if it is to be a 
match, I may as well tell you what I should like. I am 
moderate by nature. A dozen of silver forks and spoons will 
do.” 

“ My dear Madame Legrand,” replied Madame Martin, 
with a placid nod, “ nothing can repay a friendship like yours. 
If Virginie becomes Madame Lefevre, she owes it to you.” 

“ Perhaps your cousin might think,” began Madame Le¬ 
grand— 

“ He! ” interrupted Madame Martin, with great scorn, “ 1 
should like to see him expecting anything. The mean little 
fellow! ” 

With this eulogy Madame Martin went back to her apart¬ 
ment, but lest her dear friend Madame Legrand should take 
a real fancy to send back Virginie, she, Madame Martin, 
thought it her wisest course to go off to Neuilly on a visit to 
an aged aunt, who was too far gone in age to protest against 
the intrusion. What could she say, moreover, when her niece 
entered the house with the avowed intention of making her 
comfortable ? 

“ I do not see, aunt, why I should not stay with you, now 
that Virginie is going to get married,” she said graciously. 

“ Is she going to get married ? ” asked the aunt, lifting up 
a feeble head, “ and with whom ? ” 

“ With Monsieur Lefevre of Lyons,” replied Madame 
Martin. 

u Not the one who has two wives already,” said her aunt, 
musingly. 

“ Two wives! ” echoed Madame Martin, in a hollow 
voice. 

“ Yes, he was married abroad, and he married another lady 
in France, and there was a great law-suit about which was the 
right wife.” 

“ It cannot be that one,” said Madame Martin; u I will 
never believe,” she added, raising her voice, as if the culprit 
were within hearing, “ I will never believe that, bad as he is, 


SEVEN YEARS. 


313 


my cousin Th^ophile Durand could help to delude Virginie 
into such a marriage as that.” 

The aunt burst into a croaking laugh. 

“ Oh ! ” she cried, lifting up her hands, “ if he had any¬ 
thing to do with it I consider it a settled thing. Poor Vir¬ 
ginie, poor girl.” 

It was night, but Madame Martin’s resolve was taken in a 
second. She sent for a cab, jumped into it, and drove to her 
cousin’s door, for wrath proved stronger, in this instance, than 
maternal anxiet}^. 

Unconscious of the brooding storm, Monsieur Theophile 
Durand, who was an economical man, was cooking his dinner 
on a stove in the closet, when a mild, deceitful ring at the 
door induced him to open it. In bounced Madame Martin, 
wrathful and smiling. 

“ Good afternoon, sir,” she said sweetly, “I hope you are 
weil, sir ? ” 

“ Quite well,” replied Monsieur Durand. “ Pray be 
seated.” * 

“ Thank you, sir, a carriage is waiting for me at the door. 
Perhaps you will kindly answer me this question, sir : How 
many wives, to your knowledge, has Monsieur Lefevre got ? ” 

“ Tw—o,” gasped Monsieur Durand, “but the second is 
the right one. I learned it yesterday.” 

“ Thank you, sir, I am very much obliged to you. I have 
it from your own lips, on your confession that you advised 
me to marry my daughter to a man that has two wives 
living.” 

“ My dear cousin, I thought him single.” 

“ Did you inquire ? ” was the stern rejoinder. 

“ No—o.” 

“ Then how dare you speak of Monsieur Lefevre to me, 
sir ?/” 

“ But you know all about it! ” desperately exclaimed 
Monsieur Durand. 

“ I sir; I! Do you mean to add insult to injury ? ” 

“ But when you came the other evening and rang, when I 
had my night-cap on, you knew it surely! ” 

Madame Martin loftily begged he would neither *ecall 
that evening nor his conduct thereon, and again asked if he 
meant to add insult to injury. 

Monsieur Durand, who was losing his temper, testily replied 
that he meant to eat his dinner, and unceremoniously returned 
to the closet and to his cooking. 

14 


314 


SEVEN YEARS'. 


“ Yery well, sir,” resumed the voice of Madame Martin 
from the outer room, “ very well, sir, you will remember this.” 

The slam of a door told Monsieur Durand that she was 
gone. His first selfish, natural feeling was one of self-congrat¬ 
ulation at escaping her tongue, and being allowed to eat his 
hard-earned dinner in peace. Then came remorse and concern 
at the error into which he had fallen, and an earnest desire to 
mend matters, so far as they could still be mended. 

Monsieur Theophile Durand had a good deal of that nerv¬ 
ous timidity which lies most in manner, and does not exclude 
courage. His bravery, for lying dormant, was none the less 
real; he now got excited about the wrongs of Virginie, and 
resolved to right them without loss of time. 

£t The cold-hearted villain ! ” he exclaimed, seizing his hat 
and cane, and hurrying out, “ did he think that poor child had 
no protector, no friend ? We shall see—we shall see.” 

Monsieur Durand lived at no great distance from Madame 
Legrand’s house. In a few minutes he had reached her door, 
and was knocking violently. A frightened-looking servant 
answered the call. 

“ Madame is out,” she said. 

“ I want to see Monsieur Lefevre,” sternly replied The¬ 
ophile; “ lead me into his presence.” 

The servant afterwards declared he looked quite awful, 
and that resistance was out of the question. Without even 
asking his name, she opened a door and ushered him into 
the room where Monsieur Lefevre was sitting with Yirginie. 

This requires explanation. Monsieur Lefevre, as Mad¬ 
ame Legrand plainly saw, was very much smitten with her 
young friend, and readily availed himself of every opportu¬ 
nity of meeting her, which the elder lady afforded him. From 
lending books, he soon came to giving Yirginie music les¬ 
sons ; Madame Legrand was present, of course, but the les¬ 
sons were long, and she sometimes left the room, to return 
almost immediately, it is true. But this day Madame Le¬ 
grand left and did not return ; she forgot Yirginie, propriety, 
and prudence. Her cook had allowed her apricot preserves 
to burn; an unmistakable odour reached her in the drawing¬ 
room. She rose precipitately, rushed down stairs, and found 
the jam on the fire and the kitchen deserted. The faithless 
cook was flirting with the butcher’s boy at the garden gate, 
“ and my apricots, my most valuable apricots,” as Madame 
Legrand afterwards said in relating thisTamentable occurrence 
to a friend, “ were left to their fate.” 


SEVEN YEARS. 


315 


Desperate emergencies inspire desperate resolves. Madame 
Legrand took up the hissing jam, called the cook, gave her 
warning on the spot, then solemnly bade the housemaid deny 
her to the whole world. 

“ Give me a white apron,” she said, 11 and no matter who 
comes, say I am not at home.” 

Thus Virginie remained alone with Monsieur Lefevre. 
Neither the teacher nor the pupil were at first conscious of 
this important fact. Monsieur Lefevre, happening to turn 
his head round, first perceived that Madame Legrand was 
gone. Virginie next, appealing to that lady, became aware 
of her absence, and of what was infinitely worse in decorous 
France, that she, Virginie Martin, was alone with her music- 
master. What should she do ? To leave precipitately might 
look like an affectation of prudery, to remain might make Mon¬ 
sieur Lefevre hold her forward or imprudent. Still something 
must be done. She hesitated a while, then at length, and 
with a painful blush that betrayed her embarrassment, she 
rose, and closing the piano, said as calmly as she could. 

“ I have troubled you enough to day : Madame Legrand 
may want me below, I shall go and see.” 

Monsieur Lefevre looked undecided; but by the time 
that Virginie had crossed the room and reached the door, his 
mind was made up, and following her quickly, he arrested her 
with the entreaty: 

“ May I request that you will hear me for a few moments ? ” 
Virginie remained with her hand on the lock, and by her si¬ 
lence gave consent. 

What passed, and what Monsieur Lefevre said, need not 
be told. Of course it was a declaration of love and an offer 
of marriage. Virginie’s reply we need not record, of course 
it was modest assent. 

Love is a beautiful thing; but for a man to declare his 
affection to a woman is by no means so delightful a task as 
might be imagined, and for a woman to hear the aforesaid dec¬ 
laration, even -when it comes from a preferred lover, is not al¬ 
ways so pleasant as might seem. It is often quite a relief 
when a third unconscious person steps in and breaks on tie 
awkward, howsoever rapturous, silence that must needs follow. 

On the general principle, therefore, Theophile Durand 
ought to have been welcome to both Virginie and her lover; 
but strange to say, whether his interruption came a little too 
soon, that is to say, before the rapture had subsided and the 
awkwardness had come, or a little too late, that is, after the 


316 


SEVEN YE AES. 


said awkwardness was quite over and Ids presence no longer 
needed,—somehow or other, in short, he came most unseason¬ 
ably, startling by the abruptness of his entrance the fair Vir- 
ginie, who was sitting on a sofa, and who, on seeing him, got 
up with a little scream, and considerably annoying her com¬ 
panion, who rose more slowly from the couch, and returned 
with interest the scowl of Monsieur Theophile Durand. 

“ Sir,” he sharply said, “ who are you ? What do you 
want ? ” 

u Yirginie, take my arm and leave this house/’ was Mon¬ 
sieur Durand’s indignant reply. 

On hearing an utter stranger call his mistress by her 
Christian name, Monsieur Lefevre reddened and looked 
angry. Whilst Yirginie made a motion of disgust, and said 
sharply: 

“ I beg, Monsieur Durand, that you will not meddle in my 
concerns.” 

u Infatuated girl! ” said Monsieur Durand, filled with pity 
for her blindness, “ do you know this man ? Child, he has two 
wives living ! Two wives.” 

Monsieur Lefevre laughed scornfully. 

“ The accusation is too ridiculous for me to resent it,” he 
said, calmly, “ and I am sure Mademoiselle Martin will not 
credit it one moment.” 

“ Not one,” said Yirginie, with great warmth, “ not one.” 

“ I repeat it, he has two wives,” said Monsieur Durand, 
warming with his subject, “ a poor young Indian girl, whom 
he married in the South Sea Isles, and a lady of Lyons—” 

“ Sir, I will hear no more on this absurd matter,” inter¬ 
rupted Monsieur Lefevre, waxing wroth. 

“ Virginie, take my arm and leave the house,” said Mon¬ 
sieur Durand; “ I tell you this man has two wives, that your 
mother is distracted with grief on your account, and that she 
insists on your leaving this wretched house.” 

Monsieur Lefevre looked stiff and offended. 

“ If Madame Martin had done me the honour of requesting 
a personal explanation,” he said, “ all this would have been 
avoided. I know, of course, that she will regret her precipi¬ 
tate conduct, but I do not know how far I can consent to 
overlook such unmerited insults.” 

And without giving Yirginie a look, Monsieur Lefevre left 
the room. The young girl burst into tears; but .Monsieur 
Durand took her arm and led her away, asking indignantly if 
she regretted not marrying a man who had two wives living. 


SEVEN YEARS, 


317 


It was lucky Madame Martin lived opposite; Virginie 
could scarcely cross the street, and Monsieur Durand thought 
she would surely faint on the staircase. He was the more 
frightened that Madame Martin was out. The portress had 
given the key of their apartment to Virginie as they passed 
her lodge ; for this strange mother, instead of snatching her 
child from the fangs of the bigamist, had left word that she 
was gone back to Neuilly.' 

“ There is something dreadful under all this,” thought 
Monsieur Durand, foreseeing a calamity; “ I must lock up 
Virginie, take a cab and rush off to Neuilly, there I shall 
warn Madame Martin that I have rid her of this determined 
bigamist, then, ma foi , I shall wash my hands of the whole 
affair.” So said, so done. Virginie, though weak and faint, 
declared she could remain alone, and Monsieur Durand took 
care to lock her up slyly, and walk off with the key in his 
pocket. A cab was soon found, and in less than an hour Mon¬ 
sieur Durand entered the house of Madame Martin’s aunt. 

The two ladies were at dinner when he was announced. 

“ Monsieur Durand ! ” said Madame Martin, laying down 
her fork, “ what has he been doing ? ” 

“ Show him in—show him in,” said the old aunt, with fee¬ 
ble eagerness, “ I know it will be something funny.” 

In walked Monsieur Durand, cool, dignified, and import¬ 
ant. “ Madame,” said he to the aunt, u I must apologize ”— 

“ Never mind, never mind,” she interrupted, “ what is it ? 
—let us hear it.” 

“ Cousin,” said Theophile, addressing Madame Martin, 
“ Virginie is safe.” 

Virginie’s mother heard him with singular calmness. 

“ What about it ? ” she asked. 

11 1 locked her up myself in your home,” pursued Theo¬ 
phile, “ and here is the key of your apartment.” 

Madame Martin stared, but did not utter one word. 

“ I may say that I have saved her,” pursued Monsieur 
Durand. “ I found her alone with that wretch, and from her 
gently-confused look I have no doubt he had been making 
love to her. But I exposed him to her, cousin; exasperated 
him so that he pretty clearly gave her up, and left the room 
in ft great pretence of anger* upon which I took her arm, 
forcibly led her out, locked her up, and came here.” 

Monsieur Durand wiped his forehead, and smiled compla¬ 
cently on his cousin. 

“ I knew it! ” cried Madame Martin, striking her plate 


318 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


with her knife, and thus recklessly breaking it in the exaspera¬ 
tion of her anger; “ I knew it—he has ruined all-—all ruined 
—ruined.” Monsieur Durand heard her amazed. 

“ Miserable man,” she resumed, “ what made you meddle ? 
just tell me that; could you not let a mother judge for her 
child ? ” 

“ A bigamist! 55 began Monsieur Durand. 

“ A bigamist! ” screamed Madame Martin, “ he a bigamist, 
a distinguished Professor of Eloquence in the University of 
Louvain, at a salary of six thousand francs a year, if not ten, 
—he a bigamist ? Say that you are a bigamist, sir ! ” 

“ I ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, a bigamist, I maintain it.” 

Here a gurgling noise was heard, and it was discovered that 
the old aunt was choking in her arm-chair, the result of indis¬ 
creet laughter. 

11 Wretch! ” said Madame Martin, flying to her aid, “did 
you come here to commit murder ? ” 

She slapped her aunt in the back, until the venerable lady 
came round, and though still much exhausted, partly recovered 
her breath. This satisfactory result being obtained, Madame 
Martin declared that, thanks to her obliging cousin Monsieur 
Durand, she must have another jaunt to Paris, and, without 
finishing her dinner, she threw on, rather than she put, her 
bonnet and shawl, and accompanied by the discomfited Du¬ 
rand, she walked down to the cab, informing the cabman that 
if he drove quick his fare would be doubled. 

Madame Martin was too much exasperated to scold her un¬ 
fortunate cousin. She merely asked, with keen and cutting 
irony, how a man of his bright wit and experience could take 
a refined professor of eloquence for a coarse merchant and a 
bigamist, and how he dare take on himself to lock up Virginie ? 
and as Monsieur Durand was too much cast down to reply, 
she maintained a sulky silence until the cab stopped at her 
door. She then alighted, and sternly said: 

“ Here we part, sir. Your conduct I will not qualify. 
You have covered yourself and your family with disgrace, you 
have done your best to prevent my daughter Virginie from 
making a most excellent and desirable match. Your work is 
consummated. Go; I request that. I may never see your face 
again.” 

So saying, Madame Martin majestically entered the house, 
slammed the door in her cousin’s face, and left him the cab to 
pay. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


319 


K Two francs for going, one franc for waiting, and four 
francs for having driven fast back to Paris : seven francs, be¬ 
sides what Monsieur chooses to give,” added the cabman. 

“Take it, take it all!” desperately cried Monsieur Du¬ 
rand, throwing him the money and running away. 


CHAPTER III. 

That Virginie was married, that the wedding dinner was 
choice, that the bride looked lovely, and the bridegroom 
thoroughly blessed, Theophile Durand learned through public 
report. But he was not asked to the marriage ceremony, he 
was not one of the dinner guests; “and though without me 
the two ungrateful creatures would never have been married,” 
said Monsieur Theophile Durand, “ I received my usual re¬ 
ward : neglect.” 

Under this mortifying neglect Monsieur Durand was not . 
doomed to linger. His new cousin ended by laughing at the 
bigamist story; Virginie was too happy to feel any resent¬ 
ment, and Madame Martin magnanimously declared that she 
forgave her eousin : in short, the three united in extending 
the hand of peace to the offender. Monsieur Theophile Du¬ 
rand was formally asked to dinner: being a good-natured man, 
and having at heart a foolish liking for his kindred, he accept¬ 
ed the invitation. The dinner was strictly a family dinner, 
but in honour of the reconciliation, a little soiree followed it. 

“ And now,” thought Theophile Durand, “ my troubles in 
this quarter are surely over. Virginie is married. I have 
made ample apologies to her husband, who is a very agreeable 
fellow when he is not excited, and Madame Martin does not 
appear to entertain the least matrimonial design upon me. 
Yes, I think I am really safe in that quarter.” So thought 
and soliloquized the deluded man, never suspecting the world 
of trouble that awaited him. 

We have seen that the reconciliation dinner to which 
Theophile Durand had been asked was followed by an evening 
reunion, quite select. Madame Martin whispered to her 
cousin: “ I could not ask Madame Le Grand nor that set. 
No, my son-in-law’s position would not allow it.” 

The reunion was more than select; it was decidedly thin, 
and its successor—for Madame Martin insisted that Virginie 
should receive every Thursday evening—was too select for 
Monsieur Lefevre’s taste. From nine o’clock Madame Martin 


320 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


and her daughter sat in the gaily-lit drawing-room, vainly 
waiting for visitors, who came not. At ten, indeed, Theophile 
Durand made his appearance in correct evening costume, but 
to the vexation of Virginia, and to her husband’s evident an¬ 
noyance, not a soul besides. 

As eleven struck Monsieur Lefevre said to his wife : 

u Another such evening, my dear, and we will give up 
parties.” 

“ It is very annoying, 7 ’ said Virginie, “ I had provided re¬ 
freshments and cakes,—and now they are wasted, as it were. 
We do not want them.” 

u It is tiresome,” said Madame Martin, “ but we must try 
again. 7 ’ 

Monsieur Lefevre did not answer. It was plain that only 
politeness prevented him from giving a flat denial. 

Madame Martin was annoyed at the evening’s failure, and 
alarmed for the future. Her son-in-law was kind and cour¬ 
teous, but he was not manageable. He had already shown a 
strong inclination to authority, not despotism certainly, 
but authority under any aspect was distasteful to Madame 
Martin; it did not let her have her own way, which she was 
naturally fond of. Like a prudent woman as she was, she 
avoided struggles : Monsieur Lefevre would not be controlled 
or managed, but he might be led gently. To lead him skil¬ 
fully was therefore her object: but how was she to do so in 
this present matter ? 

What can I do if the people will not come ? 77 she said 
confidentially to Theophile Durand, u we asked twenty, and 
you see not one came.” 

“ Ask forty,” shrewdly said her cousin. 

11 Ask forty! ” exclaimed Madame Martin with a start, 
“ and where should we put them ? Our drawing-room is so 
small.” 

“ They will not come,” replied Monsieur Durand. “ The 
twenty did not come; the forty will no more come than the 
twenty; but forty people will have had the compliment paid 
them of being asked, and you will not have had the trouble of 
receiving them.” 

This was an idea : Madame Martin felt it was a valuable 
one too ; but casting an alarmed look towards her son-in-law, 
she whispered to Theophile Durand : “ Speak low, I entreat 
you. Edouard is so peculiar, so matter-of-fact, so literal, 
that he would never ask more people than he wished to see; 
but I shall certainly follow the plan you suggest; how to do 


SEVEN YEARS. 


321 


so I do not yet know; but where there is a will there is a 
way.” 

A way Madame Martin certainly found. She asked not 
forty, but fifty people, and chose them so judiciously, that when 
her son-in-law expressed his surprise at seeing persons drop in 
whom he had not asked, and she carelessly replied: “ I just 
asked them to fill up in case the others should not come,” he 
expressed his satisfaction at her prudence. 

From this it will be readily gathered that the third party 
was more successful than the two first. Fortune favoured, in¬ 
deed, Theophile Durand’s suggestion : fifteen people mustered; 
ten belonged to the original twenty, and five to the additional 
number asked by Madame Martin. She expressed her satis¬ 
faction to Theophile Durand, by asking him once for all. 

“ Yes, cousin,” she said suavely, “ you are always welcome. 
Virginie and her husband have quite a regard for you, and I 
trust you know and feel the esteem in which I hold you. Our 
last evening flagged a little; my floating debt, as I call my su¬ 
perfluous invites, did not come in well. We had a dearth of 
black coats. Suppose you send us a sprinkling of your friends 
the employes.” 

“ With great pleasure,” replied Theophile Durand, who 
delighted to oblige, and in his generosity he forgot the sore¬ 
ness he had felt on seeing Madame Martin plume herself on the 
success she owed to his advice, but which she did not dream of 
acknowledging to her son-in-law. 

He set to work that same day; he spoke to his chef, Mon¬ 
sieur Randon, a lofty man not easily propitiated, but with 
whom he was a bit of a favourite. He had the good fortune 
to find the potentate in an excellent temper. 

“ I see, I see,” he said, “ a young couple who require en¬ 
couragement : well, Durand, I like to encourage such. I shall 
go; Madame Randon shall go. What is there to be ? ” 

“ Music, I believe, and a young poet is to repeat some 
verses.” 

“ I like poetry,” said Monsieur Randon, “ and a game of 
cards.” 

“ My cousin is a first-rate ecarte player,” eagerly said 
Theophile. 

“ I like cards and refreshments,” continued Monsieur Ran¬ 
don. 

u Virginie is profuse with refreshments, platefuls of cakes, 
ices, &c.” 

“ I shall go,” paternally said Monsieur Randon, “ I like to 
14 * 


322 


SEVEN YEARS. 


encourage struggling merit. Tell your cousins, Durand, that 
they may rely upon me and Madame Random” 

Theophile Durand delivered the message to Madame Mar¬ 
tin, who, on hearing the tidings, threw her arms around his 
neck, and called him an angel. 

Everything promised well, yet one of those mysterious pre¬ 
sentiments which, in our ignorance, we do not sufficiently re¬ 
gard, warned Theophile Durand to stay at home, and go to bed 
on that fatal Thursday. Kindness prompted him to do the 
very reverse. “ My poor cousin wants me,” he thought, V her 
floating debt, as she calls it, runs short. My presence is ne¬ 
cessary. True, I should like home and quiet best; but we 
must not be selfish.” Supported by these generous and phi¬ 
lanthropic feelings, Monsieur Durand dressed himself, and 
walked off to Monsieur Lefevre’s house. 

Carriages encumbered the door. 

“ Oh, ho ! ” thought Monsieur Durand, “ some one else has 
a party in my cousin’s house. Well, truly, why not ? ” And 
not altogether displeased to show a stylish group of ladies in 
ample muslin, and gentlemen in white cravats, who were com¬ 
ing up the staircase behind him, that he too was going to a 
party, Theophile Durand gave a sharp, jerking ring at his 
cousin’s door. But the ladies stopped behind him. Were 
they, too, invited to Madame Lefevre’s evening party ? They 
were, there could be no doubt about it. 

The door opened, and a fragrance of smoke issued forth. 

11 Is the place on fire ? ” asked Monsieur Durand, stepping 
back. 

“ No, sir,” replied the servant, “ but we have been obliged 
to make fires in all the rooms, and some of the fires will not 
burn.” 

11 Dreadful,” said one of the ladies, “ I hate smoke.” 

The servant-girl looked at the speaker and her companions, 
then asked in a peculiar tone : 

“ Are you ladies coming to us ? Perhaps it is up stairs 
you are going ? ” 

u Madame Lefevre,” replied one of the gentlemen. 

“ Walk in,” said the servant, “ but you’ll get no room, 
that’s all.” 

11 No room ! ” they all exclaimed in a breath. 

“ There has been no room since half-past nine,” replied the 
servant; “ the drawing-room has been full since eight; the 
two bed-rooms are full; the dining-room is full, and the ante¬ 
room is crammed.” 


SEVEN YEARS. 


323 


They stared incredulous and amazed, but they soon ac¬ 
quired melancholy confirmation that the servant had spoken 
truly. As she closed the door upon them, they found them¬ 
selves in a smoky ante-room, hemmed in on every side by peo¬ 
ple all standing, and none of them in the best of tempers. 
The new-comers were stared at in rather an ungracious fash¬ 
ion, and a lady in blue, who had a sharp nose, said with great 
asperity of tone and manner : 

“ There is decidedly an hour beyond which people ought 
not to come to parties : it is ridiculous. May I ask what 
you are treading on my dress for, sir ? ” she added, looking 
daggers at Theophile Durand. 

He apologised with the greatest humility, but excused him¬ 
self on the plea of a desire to get into the drawing-room. The 
lady with the sharp nose giggled hysterically. 

“ And do you suppose, sir,” she asked, 11 that we, who 
have been standing here this hour without being able to get 
in, are going to let you in ? No, sir, you came last, and out 
you shall stay.” 

The ladies in muslin, who had entered with Theophile 
Durand, looked lofty and mildly disgusted. 

11 Oh ! people may look at me,” said the lady with the 
sharp nose. “ I do not care; but those who came last shall 
not get in first. It is bad enough to stand two hours and not 
to be offered a biscuit or a glass of water.” 

Here a stir took place in one of the inner rooms, and a 
male voice was heard entreating : 

“ Pray let us out. Let me beg for a little room. We 
only want to get out.” 

“ It is very extraordinary,” said the lady with the sharp 
nose, “ that after being in such a hurry to get in and prevent 
other people from enjoying what there is to be enjoyed, some 
people will insist on disturbing others and getting out again. 
I think for my part they should be kept in.” 

But the rumour that a lady was fainting opened a passage 
to a stout gentleman, who appeared half‘bearing, half drag¬ 
ging, an equally stout lady. In vain the lady with the sharp 
nose protested that this was but a mean and shallow artifice to 
deprive last comers of their rightful places, and that it should 
be resisted. The red face of the stout gentleman was bathed 
in genuine perspiration, and there was no mistaking the zeal 
with which he bore and dragged the stout lady after him. 

“ A chair, for Heaven’s sake,” he gasped, as he got out of 


324 


SETEN TEAKS. 


the crowd; “ is there no one that will have the charity to gel 
me a chair ? ” 

u Chairs ! ” giggled the lady in blue, “ does Monsieur sup¬ 
pose that if there were chairs ladies would remain standing 
for two hours ? ” 

Monsieur was going to declare desperately that he sup¬ 
posed nothing, when his eye caught that of Theophile Durand, 
who was vainly hiding in the crowd, and who turned pale on 
meeting it: the stout gentleman was his chef, his superior. 

“ Oh ! you are here,” said Monsieur Randon, with smooth 
sarcasm, “ may I request you to help me to support Madame 
Randon ? ” 

Theophile obeyed, and assisted in propping Madame Ran¬ 
don, who was slowly recovering, and whom her husband soon 
entirely surrendered to his employe’s care. Being thus re¬ 
lieved from a considerable burden, Monsieur Randon wiped 
his damp forehead, and, regardless of place or time, thus ad¬ 
dressed his subordinate : 

“ Well, sir, I congratulate you. So this is the little in¬ 
tellectual soiree you asked me to patronise, and to which like 
a deluded man I brought a dozen of friends and their innocent 
families 1 Sir, you are an impostor,” added Monsieur Ran¬ 
don in his wrath. “ Come, my love,” he added, taking the 
arm of his wife, who gave Theophile a withering glance for 
his pains, “ let us leave this ill-fated house, where people are 
smothered, smoked—and starved,” added Monsieur Randon, 
with bitter emphasis. 

They stalked out; Theophile Durand remained stunned, 
heedless of the sarcastic looks the lady in blue cast upon him. 
Then, suddenly awakening to the fearful consequences this 
untoward event might produce on his prospects, he rushed 
down stairs, hoping to overtake Monsieur Randon, to mollify 
his wrath by humble apologies. But Monsieur and Madame 
Randon had entered their carriage, and were already rolling 
away. 

Theophile Durand was roused. Was this the reward lie 
got for endeavouring to serve his cousin? Randon, the great 
Randon, had been alienated for ever, and for what ? for want 
of due politeness and attention, for want of an ice or a plate¬ 
ful of cakes. 

“ She shall hear a piece of my mind! ” desperately ex¬ 
claimed Monsieur Durand, and remembering that it was useless 
to go up the front staircase, he went up the back or kitchen 
staircase, undignified but sure. No sooner had he tapped at 


8EYEN YEARS, 325 

the kitchen door than it flew open. On the threshold within 
appeared Madame Martin pale and breathless. 

“Where are the ices'?” she exclaimed, “speak, sir, where 
are they ? Have you brought the cakes at least ? No ; then 
pray, sir, what are you a limonadier for ? ” 

“ I am not a limonadier,” said Theophile, “ I am your in¬ 
jured cousin.” 

“My dear creature,” cried Madame Martin, clasping both 
his hands, “ run for ices, run for cakes, run for anything. 
Where the people are come from I do not know ; but they 
keep pouring in. The place is full, three ladies have fainted 
already. Go, now do, there is a good soul. There is a 
pastry-cook round the corner, who sells odds and ends at two 
francs a pound, and procures ices as cheap. Here is money, go, 
pray go.” 

She shut the door in his face, and Monsieur Durand found 
himself with silver in his hand on a black landing. 

He was a good-natured man: he forgot his wrongs in his 
cousin’s calamities. He went for the ices; he went for the 
cakes. He went not once, but three times. By twelve his 
labours were over, the people had discovered that there was 
nothing more to be had by staying, and they departed slowly. 
By this time, too, Monsieur Durand’s wrath had cooled, and he 
magnanimously resolved not to crush his cousin with the name 
of Ran don. “ The poor thing has had trouble enough,” he 
generously thought, “ let her rest; let her rest.” 

But generosity is a delusion ; with a sigh of relief Monsieur 
Durand was preparing to depart, when Madame Martin solemnly 
begged him to enter her son-in-law’s study ; there Theophile 
found his cousin black as night. 

“ Sir,” he said, “ I can scarcely credit, and I certainly can¬ 
not qualify, the extraordinary statement I have just received 
from Madame Martin, that for the painful and disgraceful 
scenes which took place here this evening I am indebted to you ; 
that you took the liberty of inviting to this house something 
like thirty or forty of your personal friends, making me and 
my domestic arrangements a matter of ridicule and amusement 
to them. I repeat, sir, comments are superfluous; but I beg to 
assure you, that this second breach will not be so easily re¬ 
paired as the first.” 

Monsieur Lefevre rose, bowed stiffly, and left the room. 

Theophile Durand remained dumb. He had incurred the 
wrath of Monsieur Randon, he had been made an errant boy 


326 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


of, and now he was snubbed. The cup was full. He went 
home, took to his bed, and was ill a week. 

This is the last trouble on record of a quiet man; that it 
will be the last no one who has perused the preceding pages 
will readily believe. 

--- 


YOUNG FRANCE. 

Tancredi P. Mathieu was a member of the Young France 
party, when there was a Young France, which is now some 
years ago. He was the son of an honest and wealthy Parisian 
grocer, who allowed him a handsome income and total liberty 
of action. 

Our hero’s real name was Pierre Mathieu. Tancredi had 
been assumed for poetical and euphonious reasons. His friends, 
who knew his sensitiveness on that head, never gave him any 
other appellation. Like the whole Young France brother¬ 
hood, Tancredi wore long curly hair, a narrow pointed hat, 
white kid gloves, and a shirt collar turned down with the 
most Byronian despair. Any one who looked on that shirt 
collar could have told that its owner was a melancholy man— 
one “ whose young aspirations had been nipped in the bud by 
the chilling breath of an unfeeling world.” 

Tancredi’s existence had indeed been embittered by several 
severe disappointments. In the first place, he was neither an 
unknown foundling, nor an exile, nor a persecuted man: he 
had enjoyed throughout life the most provoking and common¬ 
place happiness. He did not possess the comfort of having a 
tyrannical father. Monsieur Mathieu the elder was the soul of 
good nature. Easy, placable, and fond of peace, he allowed 
Tancredi to have his way. There is no denying he would 
have liked to see his son at the head of a thriving business, 
but since his vocation did not lie in that direction he raised no 
opposition to his joining the Young France tribe, wearing long 
hair and a pointed hat. Some persons kindly assured him 
that Pierre—they scorned to call him Tancredi—was on the high 
road to ruin. But Monsieur Mathieu composedly replied that 
his son was only afflicted with a temporary mania, then very 
prevalent amongst young Frenchmen, and that he did not 
despair to see him one day radically cured. This conviction 
did not prevent the grocer from reasoning with his son; he 



SEVEN YEARS. 


327 


even endeavoured to show him that he was acting very foolishly; 
but as Tancredi immediately assumed the tone and attitude of 
a martyr, and as his father—who, under the appearance of 
great simplicity, was, nevertheless, possessed of much shrewd¬ 
ness and good sense—perceived that he longed to be persecuted 
for his opinions, he gradually dropped the subject, and left him 
thoroughly free. 

Tancredi keenly felt what he termed his father’s injustice. 
He was at war with society—so at least he said—and he had 
a right to persecution. His friends all agreed with him that 
it was a hard case, but advised him, however, to bear with it 
patiently. His bosom friend, Charlemagne Champion by name, 
for imperious and chivalrous appellations were rife in their 
circle, comforted him as best he might. 

“ My good fellow,” he said, with an odd twinkle in his eye, 
<£ fathers will be so—provoking—perverse—doing the very 
things they should not; but better times are coming.” 

And Charlemagne Champion, who, though Young France, 
was suspected to have some of the Old France wag in him still, 
squeezed his friend’s hand with expressive warmth. 

But Monsieur Mathieu’s irritating passiveness was not 
Tancredi’s only cause of grief: another source of bitter regret 
lay in his personal appearance. Somehow or other he had in¬ 
herited from his father the grocer, a round, rosy, good-humoured 
face, of which he could not possibly get rid. Notwithstanding 
his constant efforts to infuse into it some slight portion of the 
poetical melancholy which, to use his own words, “ was devour¬ 
ing his soul,” it always looked pleased, happy, and contented. 
To make matters worse, he was remarkably fair, and inclined 
to corpulency. Gladly would Tancredi have sacrificed half 
his worldly hopes to be thin and sallow. Accordingly, when 
Charlemagne Champion spoke of better times, he sighed, 
shook his head, and casting a despondent look at the glass, 
he asked in a hollow voice, “ Charlemagne, will that face ever 
change ? ” 

“ I hope not,” composedly replied Charlemagne, “ it is the 
living likeness of the immortal Robespierre.” Tancredi gave 
a start. 

Like him—I am like him! ” he exclaimed. 

“ Do you not see it ? ” 

“ Why, yes,” musingly replied Tancredi, “ you are quite 
right, I do see something in the contour. Robespierre was a 
minister, but I am not sorry to be like him.” 

Thus comforted, Tancredi took heart. Besides, like all 


328 


SEVEN YEARS. 


generous spirits, our hero often forgot his own unhappiness in 
his misanthropic compassion for the ignorance and blindness 
of mankind at large; he was convinced that the world was 
not yet half civilized, and that the bourgeois of Paris, espe¬ 
cially, were in a lamentable state of barbarism. As he was 
himself a bourgeois by birth, he conceived that his “ mission ” 
must plainly lie in civilizing his unhappy brethren, and as he 
happened to entertain for them the most thorough and hearty 
contempt, he was evidently peculiarly fitted for this delicate 
task. 

The bourgeois are the middle classes of France. They 
chiefly consist of retired tradespeople, small capitalists, and 
employes, or clerks, in the offices of the government, from 
whom they generally receive a moderate salary for their ser¬ 
vices. They are a quiet and inoffensive race, but remarkably 
timid and cautious, and tenacious of their habits and opinions 
to an extraordinary degree. Seeing them so far behind their 
age, Tancredi generously resolved to devote himself to their 
improvement. Whether they were willing to be improved or 
not was no consideration ; indeed Tancredi did not care a pin 
on the subject. If he could not succeed in making the bour¬ 
geois better, he had little doubt of getting persecuted by them ; 
so that, which ever way the wind blew, he felt pretty sure of 
reaping some benefit. These preliminaries being settled, he 
resolved to begin his attack on a little colony of bourgeois 
which had been settling for the last century in one of the most 
quiet and retired streets of the Marais, not far from the spot 
where stood his father’s house. 

This street, which shall be nameless, very much resembled 
a country town. Though not possessing more than a dozen 
houses on either side, it was divided into several sets, which 
knew nothing whatever of one another. The most important 
set, and that which immediately drew Tancredi’s attention, 
was Madame Jacquemin’s, a lady who, with her husband, a 
retired dyer, inhabited a coquettish little house, ornamented 
with a grass plot in front, and a garden at the back, and 
situated in the most conspicuous part of the street. But not¬ 
withstanding these advantages, M. Jacquemin was an unhappy 
man. He had toiled all his life in order to enjoy his old age 
in peace; and instead of his fancied happiness, he now found 
nothing in retirement save ennui and weariness of spirit. It 
was in vain that he spent the day in walking up and down 
his handsome house and about his pleasant garden ; they 
could administer no pleasure to his mind. He would gladly 


SEVEN TEARS. 


329 


have given them both for the dark and dismal shop of the 
Eue St. Denis, where he had spent thirty years of his life in 
providing for his present discomfort. Madame Jacquemin, 
who bore her misfortunes with a truly heroic spirit, en¬ 
deavoured to arouse her husband from his unhappy state. 
She took him to the play, but he invariably fell asleep before 
the close of the first act; she then wished to introduce him 
into fashionable society—a plan which failed signally; and 
finally, as a last resource, made him take in all the daily 
newspapers, and give parties twice a week. M. Jacquemin 
never looked at one of his newspapers himself; but as he 
nevertheless, and very judiciously, made it a rule that not one 
of them should leave his house, and as he very liberally in¬ 
vited his friends to “come and look at the papers,” his 
salon was every morning converted into a kind of reading- 
room, over which he presided, and where, for two or three 
hours at least, he could once more fancy himself in his shop, 
surrounded by his customers. 

His evening parties were not quite so amusing; because, 
as Madame Jacquemin often observed, “they could not ask 
everybody.” Almost all their guests were inhabitants of the 
street; but there were of course vulgar insignificant houses, 
whose lodgers could, under no pretence whatever, be received 
or admitted by the dyer’s wife. Good M. Jacquemin, who 
in the fulness of his ennui, would gladly have opened his 
house to the whole world, was much annoyed by his wife’s 
scruples, but nevertheless compelled to submit to them. 
Amongst the favoured few were M. Bonnet and his wife, a 
couple who resided on the first-floor of number seven, and who, 
as Madame Legrand, a waspish little widow, who lived above 
them, spitefully averred, gave themselves airs in consequence. 
But as there was a constant feud between her and Madame 
Bonnet, too much faith should not be placed in the lady’s 
assertions. M. Bonnet was a melancholy-looking man, ex¬ 
ceedingly nervous and timid, and employed at the war-office, 
whence he often came home in the evening blank with dis¬ 
may, hinting at horrible tidings from Abd-el-Kader, or in¬ 
timating the likelihood of a war with “ perfidious Albion.” 
Being considered a profound politician, and suspected of 
knowing much more of government aflairs than he chose to 
tell, he was much respected everywhere, save in his own 
family, over which Madame Bonnet, who was a very high- 
spirited woman, boasted that she alone held dominion. Her 


330 


SEVEN" YE AES. 


three daughters were, like their mother, tall, bony, and high- 
spirited girls. 

Madame Legrand, the officer’s widow who tennated the 
second-floor of the same house, was likewise admitted at the 
Jacquemin parties. She was thin, withered, had no children, 
and was immoderately fond of animals. Whole generations 
of cats and dogs revelled in her salon and bedroom ; cages of 
birds were hung up everywhere in her apartment; and golden 
fishes swam in vases full of water on every window-sill. 
Monsieur Laurent, a stout old bachelor, not unlike a full¬ 
blown rose, dwelt on the third-floor. He had a mortal hatred 
against Legrand and her menagerie, those of the canine race 
in particular. Of this fact the dogs seemed to have an in¬ 
stinctive knowledge, for whenever he came up or down-stairs, 
they snarled and growled ; and if they chanced to be on the 
landing, never missed the opportunity of flying at his heels. 
Though Monsieur Laurent disliked animals, he had a passion 
for flowers and gardening ; he had turned his rooms into a 
perfect conservatory, and the greatest portion of his time was 
spent in cultivating and watching over a certain patch of 
land, about as large as a dining-table, and termed his garden. 
Monsieur Laurent was of course another of Monsieur Jac- 
quemin’s invites. 

But, besides the inhabitants of number seven, there were 
various other individuals admitted at the retired dyer’s parties. 
Amongst these were several old ladies, who did an immense 
quantity of worsted work; and a mysterious family named the 
l)e Lorrains, and thought to be of noble extraction, who in¬ 
habited an old dreamy-looking hotel at the end of the street. 
They were six in all, were very pale, tall, and thin ; they 
dressed meanly, accepted every invitation, and gave none in 
return. Some charitable souls indeed noticed that they never 
refused anything, not even the refreshments which were lib¬ 
erally handed round at the dyer’s parties; and as to the cakes, 
it was actually suspected that they were so vulgar and ungen- 
teel as to have an appetite for them. It was also known—it 
is wonderful how those things are known—that in the coldest 
weather they had no fires. Sometimes, indeed, they indulged 
themselves in a fagot, to which they set fire with great cere¬ 
mony ; the younger De Lorrain being always on such an occa¬ 
sion despatched in a great hurry to summon his father, in 
order that he might partake of the genial heat ere it was quite 
extinct. At first the De Lorrains were thought mean—then 
they were accused of being poor; but many defended them, 


SEVEN YEAES. 


331 


and asserted that they were only misers. It then began to be 
reported that they were immensely rich, and their company 
was for some time eagerly sought. It is true their fortune, if 
they had one, was of no great use to anybody, not even to 
themselves ; but who has not felt the sense of security, the 
comfort, which lies in having a rich acquaintance ? As years, 
however, passed away, and they lived quite as meanly, and 
dressed as shabbily as ever, this impression wore off: they be¬ 
gan to be looked upon as impostors, and there was some talk 
of discarding them altogether. But Madame Jacquemin, who 
was of a compassionate disposition, resolved to spare them, on 
account of their poverty and their gentle blood ; they accord¬ 
ingly continued to be admitted to the soirees, where they acted 
a subordinate part, being patronised by every one. Such were 
the individuals who met at M. Jacquemin’s parties; if their 
company did not afford him much amusement, it was not their 
fault. The retired dyer was very selfish : he plainly showed 
his visitors that he cared for no one but himself; yet, strange¬ 
ly enough, everybody sympathised with him, everybody seemed 
ready to administer comfort and advice. 

“ If Monsieur Jacquemin would give dinners,” suggested 
the De Lorrains, “ he would find it a very interesting occu¬ 
pation.” 

“ How so ? ” suspiciously asked Madame Jacquemin. 

u Human nature, character,” replied the De Lorrains: “ the 
dinner table is the true place to see them in ; physiognomy, 
too, and even phrenology, can be studied to advantage from 
the dinner table, and with Monsieur Jacquemin’s remarkable 
power of observation—” 

“ Pooh, pooh ! no such a thing,” interrupted Monsieur 
Jacquemin, rather crossly, “ besides, I hate to look at people 
eating.” 

“ It is animal,” said Madame Legrand, who was present, 
“ and is only beautiful when performed by animals. It is ex¬ 
quisite, it is delicious to see a bird feed.” 

“ I rather like larks roasted,” said Monsieur Jacquemin; 
“ they are nice, there is no doubt about it, but then it takes so 
many to make a dish.” 

“ My dear sir, you misunderstand me,” said Madame Le¬ 
grand, rather shocked at the suggestion : u eat larks ! sweet, 
harmonious, musical creatures ! No, no, I meant it was charm¬ 
ing to see birds peck their food. I have a canary which I 
would lend—” 

“ Oh! for Heaven’s sake, do not mention it,” interrupted 


332 


SEVEN YEAKS. 


Madame I)e Lorrain, with an hysterical laugh, “ the scream¬ 
ing little thing would drive Monsieur Jacquemin’s head 
wild.” 

“ Canaries do not scream,” said Madame Legrand, “ they 
sing, but as this one does not sing and has never sung, it could 
not make Monsieur Jacquemin’s head ache.” 

But Monsieur Jacquemin liked birds in a pie, and pe¬ 
remptorily declined the canary. In this Monsieur Laurent 
confirmed him. 

“ Animals, my dear sir,” he said feelingly, u would sour your 
temper, gardening is the thing. You have a garden,—sow, 
reap, dig, and you will be a happy man. Let me send you 
down some choice flowers.” 

11 1 do not like flowers,” growled Monsieur Jacquemin. 

Madame Bonnet, too, had*her panacea. Why not adopt 
some interesting and sweet-tempered child ; not an orphan— 
you never know what kind of parents an orphan had ; swind¬ 
lers and thieves perhaps—but a child “ whose parents, honest, 
respectable people, were still alive—and which,” she senti¬ 
mentally added, “ would prove the staff and comfort of his old 
age.” 

This had nearly settled it. u Old age indeed! did Madame 
Bonnet think Monsieur Jacquemin was going to make his 
will? No, no, not just yet. Thank Heaven, he was hale and 
hearty, and would bury them all.” 

In short, the plain truth of the matter was that Monsieur 
Jacquemin liked private dinners best; that he disliked ani¬ 
mals, did not care about flowers, and never having had any 
children of his own, detested the children of other people : 
Madame Bonnet’s included. He felt, besides, all the rich 
man’s aversion to an heir; and constantly refused to see his 
poor relations, lest they should think of his will. 

These were the individuals whom Tancredi P. Mathieu 
had resolved to civilize, and for that praiseworthy purpose he 
got an introduction to one of Madame Jacquemin’s soirees. 
At once his eagle eye detected the awful amount of narrow¬ 
minded dulness of that little circle. The old ladies were 
busy at their worsted work ; Monsieur Laurent and Madame 
Legrand were quarrelling over a game of piquet; the melan¬ 
choly Be Lorrains were engaged with dominoes ; Monsieur 
Jacquemin was displaying his hospitality by compelling his 
guests to swallo v down immense quantities of cakes and lemon¬ 
ade ; aDd Monsieur Bonnet sat apart, wrapped in his own 


SEVEN YEAKS. 


333 


moody thoughts, which he occasionally condescended to im¬ 
part to some eager listener. 

“ Only a few friends,” said Madame Jacquemin, smiling 
graciously on Tancredi, “ a few homely friends who meet here 
three times a week to chat, to talk, to play a few odd games.” 

“ Squirrels! ” sententiously said Tancredi. 

“ Squirrels! ” echoed Madame Jacquemin, amazed. 

" Squirrels in a cage,” repeated Tancredi, “ turning round 
and round, doing the same things over and over again.” 

“ Dear me, how very odd,” said Madame Jacquemin, and 
raising her voice, she added, “ Monsieur Tancredi Mathieu 
declares we are all squirrels.” 

This strange speech completed the sensation which Tan- 
credi’s long hair, pointed hat, and white kid gloves had begun. 
He saw his advantage, and casting a magnetic look—at least 
he said so afterwards—over the whole assembly, he followed 
up this first success with considerable effect. 

He scarcely opened his lips, and was thought a prodigious 
wit. He seemed to entertain the most thorough contempt for 
the whole world, the individuals around him included; and 
they all agreed in audible whispers that he was a very superior 
sort of person—quite a genius: great geniuses always despise 
the world. Although both piquet and dominoes were neg¬ 
lected, the evening passed away with amazing swiftness. 
Every one had gathered around the stranger, who opened his 
mouth every ten minutes, and delivered some oracular sentence, 
received by his hearers with the utmost gravity. 

From that day Tancredi P. Mathieu became the acknowl¬ 
edged lion of the Jacquemin soirees, and of the Marais, which 
had never known a lion before. He was the object of every 
one’s admiration : the He Lorrains alone looked upon him with 
a suspicious eye; they had an instinctive consciousness of a foe. 

True, Tancredi did not even bestow a thought upon them, 
but, like many remarkable individuals, he showed an early in¬ 
clination to tyranny, and betrayed certain destructive propen¬ 
sities, which threatened to break upon the quiet monotony of 
the bourgeois circle. Being, as he expressed it himself, of a 
spiritual nature, he animadverted in strong terms against the 
material custom of eating in the evening. 

“ Intellectual food is the thing,” lie loftily said to Madame 
Jacquemin. “ Intellectual food and no other. That alone 
purifies and exalts.” 

Madame Jacquemin felt the cogency of this reasoning, and 
as she considered Tancredi an oracle in matters of taste, she 


334 


SEVEN YE AES. 


hastened to suppress the refreshments and sweets she had hither¬ 
to caused to be freely handed round to her guests. 

Having thus victoriously asserted the triumph ot mind over 
matter, Tancredi next succeeded in banishing both piquet and 
dominoes. 

“ In no intellectual assembly should such idle toys be ad¬ 
mitted,” he said to Madame Jacquemin. And piquet and 
dominoes vanished. 

Madame Legrand and Monsieur Laurent, who had quarrel¬ 
led over the former game for the last twenty years, both loudly 
protested against this new arrangement, but as their quarrels 
were only pleasant to themselves, every one agreed that piquet 
deserved its fate. 

Having thus deprived his disciples of their old amuse¬ 
ments, our hero felt it his duty to provide them with others in 
their stead. A piano accordingly made its appearance in 
Madame Jacquemin’s drawing-room. It is true nobody could 
play upon it—not even Tancredi; but that was evidently of 
little consequence, for towards the close of a very dull even¬ 
ing he rose, and after vainly beseeching one of the accomplish¬ 
ed ladies present to accompany him, at last sung, unaccom¬ 
panied, but still standing near the silent piano, a pathetic 
Italian song, in which he bewailed his unhappy fate ; for, as 
he afterwards condescendingly informed the company—who 
had not understood a single word—he was a forsaken and de¬ 
spairing lover. After thus initiating them to the charms of 
melody, Tancredi resolved to let them into sublimer mysteries, 
and accordingly fixed an evening, on which he proposed to 
read to Madame Jacquemin’s guests a series of sonnets, which 
he had composed several years before, “ On the Prospect of 
being Compelled by my Father to become a Grocer.” This, it 
must be confessed, was a little poetical fiction, in which Tan* 
credi had considered himself at liberty to indulge. Nothing 
was ever further from M. Mathieu’s thoughts than to compel 
his son to anything he disliked, though he certainly had at¬ 
tempted to achieve, by persuasion, the profanation above 
alluded to. 

The evening came, the company gathered around him, and 
Tancredi began his reading : he persevered for upward of two 
hours, without manifesting the least symptom of fatigue. 
When he had finished, he looked up, and found himself alone, 
comparatively speaking. M. Jacquemin was fast asleep ; the 
old ladies were nodding over their worsted work ; Madame 
Jacquemin had early effected her escape, with several female 


SEVEN YEARS. 


335 


friends; M. Laurent and M. Bonnet shook tlieirheads, and ex¬ 
changed ominous glances; the six De Lorrains alone were wide 
awake, looking at our hero with their fixed stony eyes, whilst 
their cadaverous and melancholy faces expressed the most 
absolute determination to sit out both him and his poetry. 
To increase the dismal appearance of the scene, the fire had 
gone out, the candles burned dimly, and wanted snuffing, whilst 
the loud snoring which proceeded from the vast arm-chair in 
which M. Jacquemin la}", rather marred the melody of the 
poet’s verses. “ I see they are not in a sufficiently advanced 
state of civilization to appreciate the beauties of poetry,” 
thought Tancredi, as he looked upon his audience : “ I must 
form their political principles.” 

Unfortunately for the execution of this project, it happened 
that both M. Bonnet and M. Laurent had of late conceived 
strange notions of Tancredi’s political character. His foreign 
name did not sound quite orthodox in their car; then his 
pointed hat, shirt collar, and flowing locks, struck them as be¬ 
ing something portentous in their way. Philosophers well 
know what great meanings sometimes lie hidden under trifles. 
As to his poetical readings, they had a revolutionary air, in 
direct opposition to the old school of poetry, and also, they 
strongly suspected, to the established order of things. Who 
could tell of whom Tancredi Mathieu might be the agent, or 
what was going on in the bosom of the hitherto peaceful 
Marais ? Nay, for all they knew, his pretended Italian love- 
song might be some revolutionary Marseillais hymn, or qa ira, 
speciously clothed under a foreign garb ! In short, the em¬ 
ploye of the war-office and the horticultural amateur both 
agreed it was high time to keep their eye upon Tancredi, whom 
they began to consider as a dangerous political character. 

Under these favourable circumstances our hero began his 
political campaign. He had not yet exactly determined upon 
the doctrines he meant to inculcate, but he concluded that he 
would soon find this out; and as lie was not a little elated 
with the success of his previous efforts, he began his attack in 
the spirit of true knight erranty, dealing out his blows right 
and left, without much minding where they fell. 

“ Sir,” he said one evening to Monsieur Jacquemin, “ this 
state of things cannot last. Society is wrong, radically 
wrong. A day will come, sir, when the rich will have to sur¬ 
render their ill-gotten gold to the poor : and then, beautiful 
result: their will be no poor and no rich.” 

“ No poor and no rich!” gasped Monsieur Jacquemin, 


336 


SEVEN YEARS. 


growing purple, “ and do you mean to say, sir, that thieves 
will come and rob me, sir ? ” 

“ I make no particular applications of the system,” placid¬ 
ly replied Tancredi, “ I merely state what will be.” 

“ Well, sir, let them only attempt it,” said Monsieur 
Jacquemin, “ let them only try it, ha! lia!—that is all I 
say.” 

‘ c Try it! ” said Monsieur Bonnet, “ no, no, they have 
other work in hand with Abd-el-Kader.” 

“ I admire Abd-el-Kader,” thoughtfully ejaculated Tan¬ 
credi. u He is a hero and a patriot. Besides, what is that 
puny warfare in Algeria? We shall have a European war 
before long.” 

“ He admires Abd-el-Kader ! ” gasped Monsieur Bonnet, 
unable to say more. Horticulture Tancredi did not, however, 
admire. He openly expressed his contempt for it to Mon¬ 
sieur Laurent, and plainly said it would be done away with 
under the new state of things. 

“ Oh ! ho ! ” said Monsieur Laurent, with a sneer ; “ and 
how will the world get on without geraniums or roses ? I 
should like to know that! ” 

“ Sir,” replied Tancredi, with an ominous look, “ there are 
spirits, blighted spirits, for which deadly nightshade, and hem¬ 
lock itself, have more attractions than all the roses of Syria.” 

“ What a villain ! ” muttered Monsieur Laurent. 

To Madame Legrand Tancredi made no predictions; but 
this lady he had long mortally offended beyond all hope of re¬ 
conciliation, by expressing his ardent desire of seeing every 
dog hung, and every canary bird shot through the heart; in 
support of which philanthropic wish he had adduced so many 
plausible arguments, that the good lady felt convinced that if 
ever the Young France party prevailed, her menagerie was 
doomed. 

“ I know it is Monsieur Laurent’s doing,” she said to one 
of the Be Lorrains, by whom she was sitting. 11 1 know that 
man—” 

A fearful scream interrupted her. One of the old ladies 
had gone into fits, and this was no sooner perceived by the 
other old ladies, her friends, than, out of mere sympathy, they 
followed her example. Awful was the confusion that fol¬ 
lowed; Madame Jacquemin was pretty well frightened out of 
her wits ; Tancredi, who had caused all this hubbub, stood and 
looked on, smiling and triumphant. 

“ Good Heavens ! what has happened ? ” exclaimed Mad- 


SEVEN YEARS. 337 

arae Legrand. One of the De Lorrains rose to learn, and 
soon came back with the tidings. 

“ Dreadful!” she said. “You know Mademoiselle du 
Rocher’s family were all guillotined in the terror ? ” 

“ Well ! ” eagerly exclaimed Madame Legrand. 

“ Well, this wretch goes up to her and says : ‘ Madame, do 
you know that I am wonderfully like Robespierre ? ’ Upon 
which the poor thing looks at him, and perceiving the likeness, 
screams and faints.” 

“ Monster ! ” said Madame Legrand. She spoke loud 
enough for Tancredi to hear. He acknowledged the epithet 
with a gracious smile, and left the place at Madame Jacque- 
min’s request. 

“ If she sees you,” said that lady, “ she will certainly re¬ 
lapse. Pray go.” 

Tancredi felt delighted with this crowning exploit. With 
this tact and discrimination did he endeavour to civilize the 
bourgeois of the Marais: the succession of petty storms and 
alarms he raised must be left to the imagination of the reader. 
It is true that, had the worthy citizens known anything about 
either Tancredi P. Mathieu, or the Young France party, they 
would have been conscious that the former was the most harm¬ 
less of human beings, and from the latter there was little or 
nothing to be apprehended. The Young France party, with 
their kid gloves and hair carefully curled, were no doubt the 
fit apostles of a revolution, but by such revolutions are not 
generally made. But fear reasons not: Tancredi’s words were 
received as gospel truth, and pretty work they soon made in 
the Marais. 

The dragon’s teeth were not sown in. vain : quarrels sprung 
on every side. Madame Bonnet took it into her head to 
sympathise with Abd-el-Kadcr, who became the subject of daily 
dissensions between her and her husband. A new and daily 
feud sprang up between Monsieur Laurent and Madame Le¬ 
grand, the former of whom avowed that in consequence of 
Tancredi’s disastrous teaching, his finest flower-beds were 
ruined by the widow’s dogs. Rendered desperate by one of 
those melancholy events, and recalling to mind Tancredi’s 
denunciations against pets of every description, Monsieur 
Laurent having provided himself with tackle and a fishing- 
rod, exercised his vengeance on one of Madame Legrand’s 
unoffending golden fishes, by actually fishing it up through his 
bed-room window. The unhappy lady, who, hearing a sus¬ 
picious noise against the highest window panes, had rushed to 
15 


338 


SEVEN YEARS. 


the rescue, only arrived in time to see her finny favourite 
whisked up in the air, and vanishing into the enemy’s pre¬ 
cincts. Her first act was to snatch in her remaining treasures, 
who, quite unconscious of their companion’s fate, were still 
gaily swimming along their narrow domain; the next was to 
scream for help, and then faint away in good earnest. When 
she recovered, she found herself surrounded by condoling 
friends; but nothing could soothe her wounded spirit. She 
declared that she never should forgive M. Laurent, against 
whom she vowed eternal hatred and vengeance. 

But even greater evils—all springing from the same source 
—menaced the guests of M. Jacquemin. The worthy dyer, 
on whom Tancredi’s speeches had made a profound impres¬ 
sion, began to entertain serious fears for his safety. Lest his 
reputation of being a wealthy man should bring him into 
trouble, he determined to reduce his expenditure; and, as a 
first step, talked of discontinuing to take in the daily papers, 
and stopping the soirees altogether. This announcement 
spread a panic throughout the whole street. M. Jacquemin’s 
house had become a place of public entertainment, which his 
guests had no inclination to find closed upon them. In this 
dilemma a general council was held ; private dissensions were 
for a while forgotten, and it was unanimously resolved to 
strike at the root of the evil, and banish Tancredi P. Mathieu. 
The gaunt He Lorrains, who alone had from the beginning 
perceived the impending danger, proposed to signalize him to 
the mayor of the arrondissement as a dangerous individual; 
M. Bonnet offered to say a few words at the war-office; M. 
Laurent to give him a delicate hint in the language of flowers; 
Madame Legrand proposed a night attack on his person; and 
the old ladies were for handling him over to the public execu¬ 
tioner at once. But Madame Jacquemin rejected all these 
plans as too violent and inhospitable, and resolved to intimate 
to him, as politely as possible, that if he chose to continue his 
visits, it must no longer be on his own terms, but on hers. 
Accordingly, when Tancredi came as usual to one of the even¬ 
ing soirees, his head full of mighty plans of poetical, social, 
and political reform, he could not, notwithstanding his ab¬ 
straction, but notice that a great change had taken place. 
The piano, which had only been hired for a month, had van¬ 
ished; M. Laurent and Madame Legrand were quarrelling 
over piquet to their heart’s content; the De Lorrains, who 
were eating cakes and drinking lemonade, eyed him with de¬ 
fiance ; dominoes were re-established in their supremacy ; and 


SEVEN YEARS. 


339 


the old ladies were as triumphantly engaged in worsted-work 
as on the night of his first appearance amongst them. 

One glance told Tancredi that the bourgeois of the Marais 
had rebelled : his authority was no longer acknowledged; he 
was virtually dethroned. Even the most energetic minds 
must sometimes yield to the might of fate: thus it was with 
our hero. Vanquished, but unsubdued in spirit, he never¬ 
theless saw the uselessness of resistance. Casting a glance of 
withering scorn on his late disciples, he spake not a word, but 
turned upon his heel, and left the drawing-room of Madame 
Jacquemin, inwardly passing the fatal fiat “ for ever.” With 
signal ingratitude, every one uttered an exclamation of tri¬ 
umph on witnessing his exit. The remainder of the evening 
was spent in perfect enjoyment—harmony seemed quite re¬ 
stored ; and it is averred that, notwithstanding the late pain¬ 
ful circumstances that had occurred, the quarrels of M. Lau¬ 
rent and the fair widow were marked by unusual amenity. 

The day after his defeat, Tancredi wrote to Charlemagne 
Champion a letter of seven pages, in which he related, with 
great seeming bitterness of spirit, his vain attempt to civilize 
a parcel of barbarians, and instil into their uncultivated minds 
a love of the fine arts, and a sound political creed. He end¬ 
ed by exclaiming against the cruelty of mankind, that would 
not allow him one moment’s repose; and as he had little 
doubt that the malice of his antagonists would drive them to 
every extremity, spoke of exiling himself in some remote soli¬ 
tude, where his wounded spirit might perhaps at last find rest! 

By return of post he received the following answer : 

“ Bear Tancredi, 

“ I am by no means astonished at your failure; you have 
met with a fate common to all great spirits; you ought not, 
therefore, to mourn, but to rejoice. Had you, however, con¬ 
sulted me on the subject, I could have foretold exactly what 
has happened. Whatever you do, never again attempt to 
civilize bourgeois. They are very worthy people in their way, 
but singularly obstinate. They like to enjoy themselves ac¬ 
cording to their own stupid old-fashioned manner. As they 
are fast disappearing from the surface of the land, it is only 
an act of mercy to allow them to live unmolested. Hence¬ 
forth heed them not, but turn all your efforts and energies on 
the rising generation. Give up the thought of going into 
exile ; talents like yours should not be wasted away in a 
desert. Your devoted 

“ Charlemagne Champion.” 


340 


SEVEN YEARS. 


But Tancredi was bent on being a persecuted man, and 
once in bis life, at least, an exile. He announced to his father 
his intention of leaving the country for some time. Monsieur 
Mathieu the elder heard him with much more composure than, 
from the painful nature of the communication, might have 
been expected; he even remarked that travelling would do 
his son good, and seemed to view the whole affair as one of 
minor importance. It was in vain that Tancredi endeavoured 
to impress upon his mind that he was going to leave his coun¬ 
try perhaps for ever. Monsieur Mathieu persisted in assert¬ 
ing that he was only going to travel, and very calmly bade 
him farewell. 

In a few days Tancredi left Paris for Geneva. We will 
not dwell on the agonizing nature of his feelings when, having 
passed the frontier, he beheld from the diligence window the 
blue hills of his country—his native hills, as, forgetting his 
Parisian birth, he called them—vanish from his view. For 
three months he wandered on the shores of Lake Leman, and 
indulged in misanthropic reflections on the folly and ingrati¬ 
tude of mankind. At the expiration of that term—during 
which he had been, to say the truth, the prey to intolerable 
ennui—he gladly hastened back to Paris, without, however, 
informing his father of his intention. On a fine summer even¬ 
ing he bent his steps towards his father’s house in the Marais : 
he still wore his pointed hat, and a travelling cloak enveloped 
his person ; a porter who followed him carried his luggage. 
Without allowing himself to be announced, Tancredi, who 
loved dramatic effect, rushed into the parlour, where his father 
was seated reading the newspaper, and throwing back his 
cloak, discovered himself to the ex-grocer’s astonished sight. 
Good Monsieur Mathieu laid down the paper instantly, and 
uttered a very deep hem ; but as he was not what is called a 
very nervous man, he did not seem otherwise affected, but 
kindly welcomed his son; and seeing that he looked as rosy 
and happy as ever, immediately gave orders for a substantial 
supper. Tancredi, who was rapturously gazing through the 
window on the starlit sky of his native city, of course heard 
or heeded nothing of those material concerns ; “ his spirit 
was far away.” 

u Well, Pierre, how did you like Geneva?” asked Mon¬ 
sieur Mathieu, turning towards his son, whom he never called 
Tancredi. 

u AH places are alike ; he is everywhere alone,” moodily 
answered his son in the words of Lamennais. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


341 


M. Matliieu, who saw that Tancredi was still bent on 
being wretched, remained silent, and took up his newpaper 
once more. 

11 I suppose,” resumed Tancredi after a brief pause, “ the 
malignancy of their hatred is unabated ? ” 

“ Of whom are you speaking ? ” inquired his father with 
seeming surprise. 

“ Of M. Jacquemin, his wife, and all those whose ingrati¬ 
tude made me fly my native land.” 

“ Oh, they are very well, thank you; they were all inquir» 
ing after you only last week.” 

“ I know they hate me; yet I wish them no evil,” replied 
Tancredi, with the resignation of a martyr. u I earnestly 
hope they are happy ? ” 

“ They are indeed quite happy,” answered his father. 

Tancredi smiled iucredulously. “ How can they be happy,” 
he exclaimed, “ when they are a prey to all the evil passions 
that disturbed mankind ? I endeavoured to reclaim and civil¬ 
ize them; I failed in the attempt, but I cannot think them 
happy! ” 

u Well,” said his father, quietly, “since you went to Ge¬ 
neva I have seen a good deal more of them : I at first found 
them much irritated against you.” 

“Ha! I knew it! ” triumphantly exclaimed Tancredi. 

“ But I soon succeeded in pacifying them,” continued his 
father, without heeding the interruption. Tancredi looked 
as though he could have gladly dispensed with this instance of 
paternal solicitude. 

“ I, moreover, tried to make them happy; not perhaps ac¬ 
cording to the best manner, but according to that best suited 
to them.” 

Tancredi’s features expressed unqualified surprise: he 
seemed to wait for something else, but his father remaining 
silent, he at last said: “ Well, sir, I suppose ; , by making them 
happy, you mean making them better ? ” M. Mathieu nodded 
affirmatively. “ If so,” continued his son, “ pray how did you 
rid M. Jacquemin of his intolerable selfishness and sordid love 
of wealth ? ” 

“ M. Jacquemin,” quietly answered the father, “ is, as you 
say, selfish, and fond of money; but he is no miser: he has 
no objection to spend large sums, provided it is to please him¬ 
self. Had I advised him, as you did, to divide the wealth he 
did not need amongst the poor, he would have looked upon me 
as a madman. When he complained to me of his great ennui, I 


342 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


advised him to settle in business some of his poor nephews and 
nieces, whom he had always refused to see, lest they should 
expect anything from him. He at first seemed very much 
opposed to this plan; but when I reminded him that after his 
death his fortune must belong to his relations, who would per¬ 
haps squander it away, and that it would be more pleasant for 
him to dispose of it, according to his own fancy, during his 
lifetime, he quite agreed with me, and immediately took steps 
to place his eldest nephew in a dyer’s business, which he takes 
great delight in superintending. He has likewise provided for 
his other relations, with whom he occasionally quarrels, but 
towards whom he, nevertheless, behaves with much real kind¬ 
ness. He still takes in the papers, and has not discontinued 
the soirees; but as he now has little leisure, he is glad to lend 
out the former to his friends, and enjoys the relaxation of the 
latter much more than formerly; he is, upon the whole, a 
happier and a better man.” 

u Humph ! ” almost contemptuously exclaimed Tancredi. 
“ I had embraced all humanity in my plan; yours, I perceive, 
is confined to making a few persons happy.” 

“ It is at least the more practicable of the two,” replied 
his father. 

“ And I suppose,” continued Tancredi, u that you also suc¬ 
ceeded in reconciling M. Laurent and Madame Legrand; 
who, with their insufferable love of flowers, and animals, and 
mutual antipathy, were enough to destroy all harmony where- 
ever they appeared ? ” * 

“ I did not endeavour to reconcile them,” answered M. 
Mathieu ; “ but when M. Laurent informed me of all he had 
to suffer from his neighbour, the widow, I advised him to 
marry her, upon which he told me in confidence that he had 
been thinking of it for the last ten years, and without waiting 
for a reply, launched out into her praises. In short, it ended 
by his requesting me to be the bearer of a letter to her, as he 
averred that he could not summon up courage to address her 
himself. I consented to undertake this task. On reading the 
letter, which was a very long one, Madame Legrand became 
greatly agitated, said something about a golden fish, but at 
last declared that she forgave him everything.” 

“ But they are not actually married ! ” exclaimed Tan¬ 
credi. 

“ They have been so for the last six weeks,” replied M. 
Mathieu. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


343 


“ And do you mean to say,” asked liis son, “ that they no 
longer quarrel ? ” 

“ On the contrary, they quarrel every day ; but as it may 
be safely asserted that it is more from the force of habit than 
from any other motive, they can be said to agree very well 
upon the whole. Very little is changed in their existence. 
They live in the same house; Madame Laurent still occupies 
the second-floor with her animals, and M. Laurent the third 
with his flowers: they enjoy their game of piquet, and its ac¬ 
companying squabble, every evening; and it is my firm belief 
that their greatest cause of complaint against you was the 
attempt you made to deprive them of that pleasure.” 

Tancredi turned up his eyes to the ceiling, ancf in a tone 
full of indignation, began, “ Who will attempt to fathom the 
duplicity of man ? Who will attempt to fathom the duplicity 
of man ? Who—” Here he became suddenly silent, either 
overwhelmed by the vastness of the subject of his question, 
or induced to hold his peace by the aspect of the supper on 
the table. 

Several days elapsed before Tancredi be induced to accom¬ 
pany his father on a visit to M. Jacquemin. He ~at last ex¬ 
pressed his consent, by declaring himself 11 ready to free his 
enemies.” His father, who had learned to understand his 
enigmatical mode of speech, required no more. They accord¬ 
ingly called on the retired dyer the same evening: the Bon¬ 
nets, Laurents, and He Lorrains, were all present; they seemed 
delighted to see our hero, and received him with the greatest 
cordiality. When his father commented on this circumstance, 
Tancredi smiled bitterly, and muttered something about the 
serpent being hidden by flowers. But the truth was, that 
since M. Mathieu had given M. Jacquemin’s guests to under¬ 
stand that his son’s mind had been somewhat disturbed by 
certain visions, prevalent amongst the youth of France, their 
anger had been turned into pity, which they now openly ex¬ 
pressed. But of this Tancredi saw, or would see nothing: 
they had hated him three months back, they must hate him 
still; and with this soothing unction to his wounded pride, he 
endeavoured to comfort himself. 

Several years have elapsed, and no important change has 
occurred in the bosom of the little society we have attempted 
to portray. M. Jacquemin has forgotten the name of ennui 
since he followed his friend M. Mathieu’s advice; his poor re¬ 
lations are in a thriving condition, and seem to feel much 
gratitude for his kindness. M. Bonnet still menaces his 


344 


SEVEN YEAIiS. 


friends with an impending European war; but it has been 
noticed that they have now become quite accustomed to the 
prediction. Madame Bonnet, whose thoughts are all bent on 
matrimonial alliances for her daughters, has entirely forgotten 
Abd-el-Kader. M. and Madame Laurent quarrel less every 
day; it is strongly suspected by their friends that the time 
will come at last when they will not quarrel at all! The only 
great event which has occurred concerns the De Lorrains; it 
seems that., after all, they were immensely rich. A law-suit, 
which lasted for several years, had prevented them from enter¬ 
ing into the enjoyment of their fortune. The old hotel is 
shut up : its inhabitants have removed to a fashionable neigh¬ 
bourhood, where they live in style, and keep their carriage. 
Circumstances have wonderfully altered their outward appear¬ 
ance. They have all quite a bold and prosperous air. They 
frequently invite their former patrons to their parties; but 
either the Jacquemin set are hurt at the long deception prac¬ 
tised upon them, or they have not yet made up their minds to 
forgive the De Lorrains their sudden and unexpected pros¬ 
perity ; for, with the exception of the first invitation, which 
they only accepted out of curiosity, they have declined all 
other requests, taking in high dudgeon the splendour of the 
entertainment offered to them. It is, nevertheless, suspected 
that they will relent in time, if not for their own sakes, at 
least for that of their children, to whom, as Madame Bonnet 
observes, they will, of course, feel desirous of securing the 
comfort of a rich acquaintance. But Madame Laurent, who 
still entertains a grudge against her neighbour, declares that 
she has other designs on the De Lorrains, and is determined 
to keep her eye upon her. We must not forget to record that 
several of the old ladies have been cut away by the remorse¬ 
less hand of death. It is worthy of notice, that those who still 
survive have never been able to forget Tancredi’s unlucky like¬ 
ness to Marat; they evidently look upon this circumstance as 
very suspicious. 

- This brings us naturally to our hero. Of him we have 
very little to say. He is, to all appearance, as rosy, and 
happy-looking, and miserable in reality as ever. His father, 
nevertheless, asserts that he has of late manifested symptoms 
of change. His hat is not quite so pointed, his shirt collar is 
no longer Byronian, and his hair has actually been cropped 
quite close by the neighbouring hairdresser, who declares that 
he only followed his positive orders. But what looks more 
ominous still is, that the name of Tancredi has vanished from 




SEVEN YEARS. 


345 


Ills cards, which now only bear plain P. Mathieu. Whatever 
may be the causes of this change—and whether it is to be 
attributed to his failure in not being able to become a perse¬ 
cuted man, or whether there is some other motive for it—it 
seems, nevertheless, very probable that a crisis in P. Mathieu’s 
character is at hand. Some persons have been found who be¬ 
gin to think, like his father, that he may, after all, settle down 
into a sober, sensible individual: a supposition the more 
probable, that he actually has been heard to talk of marrying 
and entering into business; and that, after all, his youthful 
tollies were more fit subjects for good-humoured ridicule than 
for real apprehension—a remark which many individuals have 
actually applied to the Young Prance party itself. 




ADRIEN. 

In a gloomy and winding street of the cite there stands an 
old crazy-looking house seven stories high, which appears to 
have been most uncomfortably squeezed and narrowed up by 
its more modern neighbours, and has upon the whole an in¬ 
secure and tottering air. The gate of this house, as in all the 
poorer dwellings, stands ever open for the convenience of the 
numerous lodgers; beyond it extends a low cellar-like arch, 
which terminates with a glimpse of an old pump in a damp, 
grass-grown yard; on the left of the arch exists a dark hole 
—the lodge wherein dwells a cross old portress, who has, not 
unnaturally, contracted a dark aud misanthropical view of the 
world. Night and day a lamp is always burning in that lodge, 
whilst a dull, glimmering ray of light, descending from a high 
and remote window, reveals the winding staircase which leads 
to the various floors of the house. 

It was in a garret, situated on the last of these seven 
stories, that there lived, a few years ago, an orphan lad named 
Adrien, and his grandmother, an old weak-minded peasant 
woman, who still appeared as great a stranger to Paris and 
Parisian life as when she entered for the first time the capital 
of Prance. To the humble abode of this obscure couple we 
will now introduce the reader. The room was indeed a mere 
garret, scarcely more than eight feet square, with low ceiling 
and slanting walls; but though narrow and bare, it was neat 



346 


SEVEN YEARS. 


and clean. The lit de sangle , or framed canvass, so common 
amongst those of the Parisian poor who cannot afford room 
for a beadstead, was folded up with its thin mattress against 
the wall ; the lame deal table had been most scrupulously 
scrubbed ; no dust or stain appeared on the red-tiled flooring ; 
a few battered kitchen utensils which hung on the walls 
were placed with a sort of regard to symmetry; a piece of 
broken looking-glass adorned the mantle-shelf; near it was 
suspended a five sous portrait of Napoleon, under which had 
been placed, as if in homage, a blooming pot of the modest 
flower known amongst us as the mignonette, but which in 
France is generally called reseda. A golden sunbeam which 
streamed in through the narrow and open window, and fell on 
the little broken mirror, Frightened the whole place with its 
joyous and cheerful light. 

Near that window now sat in a rickety arm-chair Adrien’s 
grandmother, attired in her peasant’s dress of short and 
striped woollen petticoat, blue jacket, and headgear consisting 
of a printed calico handkerchief. Without expressing either 
ill health or physical infirmity, the old woman’s sunburnt 
features betrayed a mental helplessness, painful to behold as 
she sat there with her hands folded on her knees, watching 
listlessly every motion of her active grandson. With his 
shrewd intelligent countenance, dark curly hair, and well knit, 
though diminutive frame, he was only fifteen, Adrien offered 
a very favourable specimen of the Parisian gamin. The con¬ 
fident bearing, decisive attitudes, and frank good-humoured 
accent, revealed at once a true son of Paris. The lad was 
now in a state of great bustle and preparation—lighting a 
charcoal fire, heating a pan over it, melting dripping, peeling 
onions, singing snatches of songs in spite of his smarting 
eyes, throwing the onions into the pan when the dripping had 
reached frying heat, and, in short, preparing that favourite 
French dish—onion soup, which ere long was smoking on the 
table in an old earthenware tureen. 

“ Come, grandmother,” said Adrien, in a cheerful tone, 
u breakfast is ready; ” and he closed his eyes and smacked 
his lips as he inhaled the curling vapour which rose from his 
plate. “ How rich it looks,” he added, admiringly. “ Upon 
my word of honour, I‘know nothing better for a working man 
than a dish of onion soup.” 

The old woman, without seeming to share his enthusiasm, 
cast a dreary look on the dark liquid, and partook of it very 
slowly. Not even the manly, swaggering tone with which 


SEVEN YEARS. 


347 


Adrien concluded his speech had power to rouse her. It is 
true she was accustomed to it. When they first began to live 
together a few months before, she had indeed wondered with a 
dreamy sort of perplexity on whose side the mistake lay, when 
she thought Adrien a boy, and he evidently considered himself 
a man; but his cool, decisive manner had promptly laid the 
matter at rest, and she would now as soon have dreamed of 
doubting her own identity, as of questioning his authority and 
experience. 

“ Well, what shall we have for dinner ? ” said Adrien, who 
had finished his soup, and balancing himself back on his chair 
with his hands thrust into his pockets, was now watching the 
old woman. 

“ Let us have a stew of mutton and haricots, Adrien,” she 
promptly replied. 

“ Grandmother,” said he, impressively, u I only earn six 
francs (five shillings) a week.” 

“ Well then a cabbage soup, with a good piece of bacon in it.” 

“ Bacon is horribly dear ; but if you like the cabbage with¬ 
out it—” 

“ No I don’t,” was the snappish answer. 

u I should propose sorrel soup,” continued Adrien, u but it 
is no good without eggs, which we cannot afford ; or bean soup 
if we had only got beaus, which we have not. Do you know,” 
he confidentially added, “ that we have some dripping,” his 
eyes fell on an earthen pot standing in the corner of the room, 
“ and plenty of onions,” he glanced at a bunch hanging from a 
nail on the wall; “ do you know I think we could not do bet¬ 
ter than to have a good, hot, smoking tureenful of onion soup.” 

“ Onion soup ! ” indignantly exclaimed the old woman; 
“ why we have had onion soup all the week ; Adrien,” she pa¬ 
thetically added, “ do you mean to say we must live on onion 
soup ? ” Adrien looked embarrassed, but he resolutely re¬ 
plied : 

“ Yes, grandmother, we must—if we cannot help it.” 

u Onion soup made with dripping, too,” she mournfully 
added, rocking herself to and fro, “ and never even a drop of 
wine.” 

“ Grandmother,” observed her grandson, very gravely, and 
pausing in his task of clearing away the breakfast things, k£ you 
know Paris wine gives you the headache. You remember,” he 
added, in a lower tone, u how strangely you behaved when that 
wicked Madame Mitron, next door, persuaded you to go with 
her to the barrier. No, no, wine is not good for you. It ex- 


348 


SEVEN YE AES. 


cites you,” said he, after seeming at a loss for the proper 
word, “ it excites you.” 

u Aud to live in such a garret! ” she continued, without 
heeding him. 

u Garret! ” he echoed, glancing admiringly round him; 
u why, have you not a good warm bed ? ” 

“ Yes, Adrien, but you sleep on the floor.” 

“ I prefer it,” he hastily replied; “ it is more wholesome, 
you see. “ And then,” he resumed, “ have you not got a por¬ 
trait of the Emperor, and a looking-glass, and a pot of reseda, 
and the sun that comes in every morning; and always plenty 
of bread and soup to eat ? ” 

“ Onion soup, Adrien.” 

“ Add to which advantage,” said Adrien, summing up, 
“ that you have nothing to do but to walk about Paris all day 
long, or, if you prefer staying at home, to look out of the win¬ 
dow and enjoy yourself.” 

“ And look at the smoky chimney pots,” replied the old 
woman, despondingly. 

“ Grandmother, I wonder at you ! You know that you 
have only to place the table near the window—mind the broken 
foot though—and put a chair on the table, and get up on the 
chair yourself, in order to have the finest view possible of the 
towers of Notre Dame.” 

Dut a prospect of the Paris cathedral, though thus ob¬ 
tained, did not seem to comfort Adrien’s old relative. She did 
not like Notre Dame; it was too large and gloomy; she wanted 
the little, white, sunny church of her own village; she wanted 
that village itself, with its comfortable dwellings and well-stored 
larders, and abundance of all good things. Paris was a drear, 
dismal place, aud Paris she would leave. 

“ Impossible,” interposed Adrien. “ In the first place, you 
know you have no one to go back to in your own village, as 
you call it; but even if you had,” he added, w T ith an important 
air, “ I could not allow you to go.” 

The old woman looked up quite bewildered. 11 You do 
not mean to say, Adrien, that you would keep me here against 
my will ? ” 

“ Yes, I do. Come,” said he, sitting down by her, and 
speaking with sudden gravity, “ you know—for you were by— 
and it is not long ago, what my poor father said to me on his 
death-bed, ‘ Adrien, my boy,’ said he, ‘ I am going away; God 
bless you; be an honest working mau ; pay your way and take 
care of your poor old grandmother.’ Now,” observed Adrian, 


SEVEN YEARS. 


349 


after a little pause, “ an honest working man I believe I am; 
my way I have paid till now; we are not like old Madame 
Mitron, who drinks all she has, never pays her rent, and looks 
another way when she passes before the sour old portress’s 
lodge; we can look the landlord himself straight in the face, 
grandmother; but that is not all, and I should not have done 
my father’s will if I did not take care of you; so you see you 
must remain with me. After all I do earn six francs a week.” 

“ You are a good lad, Adrien,” exclaimed his grandmother, 
sobbing and throwing her arms around his neck in a sudden re¬ 
vulsion of feeling. 

“ Nay,” said he, with gravity, “ I only do my duty as an 
honest man, you know.” 

By this time it was getting late; and, as Adrien said, 
quite time for him to be gone to his work. But whilst com¬ 
pleting his preparations—for he was extremely neat and care¬ 
ful of his person—he undertook to administer consolations to 
his grandmother, whose tears w r ere still flowing. 

“ Come, grandmother, don’t cry, we all have our troubles. 
If you knew what we carpenters have to endure; and if one 
happens to be short, what advantage is taken of it. Look at 
that Grand Jean, who, because he is six foot high, cannot 
meet one on the staircase without talking of tom-tits. Ah, 
grandmother, if it were not for you—,” and a significant and 
ominous frown gathered over the boy’s smooth brow as he 
spoke. 

“ Holy virgin ! ” screamed the old woman, “ you don’t 
think, Adrien, of attacking that big, tall man? ” 

“ No, indeed, I do not,” gravely answered her grandson; 
I hope I know my duty to you better. Why, suppose Jean 
and I were to have an affair, and I to hit him, and hurt him, 
I should certainly be sent to prison ; and then,” he pathetically 
added, “'then what would become of you? ” Adrien seemed 
overwhelmed with emotion at the idea. But he v ?as now quite 
ready; so slinging his basket of tools over his shoulder, he 
embraced his grandmother, and hesitatingly observed, “ if old 
Madame Mitron should try and lure you to the barrier, grand¬ 
mother, you will not go ? ” 

“ No,” she slowly replied. 

“ You know,” he said, colouring as he alluded to his old 
relative’s secret infirmity, “ that wine excites you. I shall be 
back at two,” he continued, after a pause, “so pray try and 
have the onion soup ready.” 

The name of this unlucky dish immediately brought a 


350 


SEVEN YEARS. 


cloud over the old woman’s brow, and as she closed the door, 
Adrien heard her muttering “ onion soup ! ” indignantly. 

Scarcely had Adrien issued on the landing, when a door 
opposite gently opened, and afforded him a glimpse of a very 
red and pimpled face. “ So old Mitron wants to see me out 
before she begins her tricks with poor grandmother,” thought 
Adrien. Madame Mitron, seeing herself discovered, no longer 
affected concealment, and nodding at Adrien, with what he 
considered a most insolent familiarity, for he was apt to be 
wonderfully ticklish on small points of dignity, cavalierly ad¬ 
dressed him with a “ Bonjour, Adrien.” 

“ Bonjour, Madame,” he loftily replied; “ allow me to ob¬ 
serve that you might say, Monsieur Adrien.” 

“ Pray, how loDg have we called ourselves Monsieur 
Adrien ? ” she asked, with a sneer; and Madame Mitron 
burst into a fit of laughter which shook her dropsical frame. 

“ Very amusing,” she observed, when her merriment was over ; 
and she clapped the door in his face. Adrien disliked Mad¬ 
ame Mitron, and not without a cause; u she was always,” he - 
said, “ endeavouring to corrupt his innocent grandmother, lur¬ 
ing her to the barrier, where she got excited with adulterated 
wine.” He was sure his grandmother was no drunkard; she 
was only new to Paris, and to the necessity of living on six 
francs a week. If she would only believe him when he as¬ 
sured her they were very comfortable upon the whole. But 
she would persist in preferring butter to dripping, meat to 
onion soup, and wine to water! Foolish grandmother ! But 
he loved her for all that, and even with a sort of pride; she 
has been very handsome, he often thought, as he looked ad¬ 
miringly at her sunburnt and wrinkled features, where to no 
other eyes would a trace of beauty have been visible. Then 
on a Sunday, when she donned her holiday gear, and they 
went out together, how he admired her with her high white 
cap, the gold cross suspended from her neck, and the short 
and full petticoat of flaring pattern. They might have been 
so happy, but for Madame Mitron; why did that weak grand¬ 
mother yield to her wicked advice, and entrust her with a gold 
cross and little articles of country finery, which, through her 
agency, were speedily converted into barrier banquets ? And 
to think that, after causing all this mischief, Madame Mitron 
should presume to insult him ! 

This was not destined to be Adrien’s only tribulation on 
this unlucky morning; at a turn of the staircase he suddenly 
found himself face to face with Grand Jean. Grand Jean 


SEVEN YEARS. 


351 


was a big, heavy, good-tempered working man, a native of the 
mountains of Auvergne, who resided in the same house with 
Adrien; the lad’s pretensions to equality seemed to afford 
him infinite amusement whenever they met, but when fiery 
little Adrien attempted to annoy and provoke him in his turn, 
the colossal Jean evidently considered the joke rich beyond 
description. He now gave him a good-humoured nod and 
smile, for he liked the lad in his heart, and greeted him with, 
u ail d how are we getting on this fine morning, Adrien? ” 

u \ ery well,” replied Adrien, in a sharp tone, and with a 
peculiarly defiant jerk of his head; “ please to allow me to 
pass,” he imperatively added, for the burly form of Jean ob¬ 
structed the narrow staircase. 

“ Of course,” said Jean; and, without standing on one 
side, he raised his arm horizontally, apparently intimating 
that Adrien' was welcome to pass underneath it. Truth com¬ 
pels us to declare that he could have done so without the 
greatest inconvenience. 

“ Sir! ” said Adrien, colouring to the very temples. 

“ So we are getting- in a pet, as usual,” benignantly re¬ 
marked Grand Jean, making room for him, and gently patting 
him on the head as he spoke. 

u Sir ! ” cried Adrien, in a shriller tone, and pulling his 
cap over his eyebrows, for he was perfectly exasperated; but 
Jean, with provoking indifference and good humour, continued 
to ascend the staircase, merely turning round to give Adrien 
a last friendly nod as he vanished from his sight. 

“ It is better to bear it quietly, for the sake of grand¬ 
mother,” heroically observed Adrien to himself; but he swal¬ 
lowed the affront very unwillingly, and considered himself an 
extremely ill used individual. And, indeed, was he quite 
fairly treated ? Left on his own resources whilst still a boy, 
he had to support himself and his old relative; nay, even to 
control her conduct, and assume all the duties and responsi¬ 
bilities of a man; but he was expected to do this without tak¬ 
ing any of the state and dignity of the character he had to 
sustain. Fortunately for Adrien, he did not behold the mat¬ 
ter in this light. His self-delusion with regard to his own 
importance was without the alloy of a doubt, and he ascribed 
to individual perverseness the occasional mortifications he 
endured. But as these mortifications were highly unpleasant, 
and as the best of us must occasionally indulge in some trifling 
weakness, Adrien, in order to soothe his wounded pride, now 
thought fit to pause before the misanthropical portress’s lodge 


352 


SEVEN YEARS. 


—that dark hole where the lamp, like the sacred tire on the 
altar of Yesta, was kept ever burning; and, thrusting in his 
head, to observe with a condescending nod and gracious smile : 
“ And how are we getting cn to-day, Mere Moreau ? ” 

The old portress, who was skimming her soup near the fire, 
looked up with mute surprise, and for one moment the ladle 
paused in its office; but before she could recover from the 
amazement into which this audacious intrusion had thrown her, 
Adrien vanished. This little ebullition of vanity restored him 
at once to his usual equanimity of temper. He left the dingy 
old house, singing like a lark, and went down the winding 
street in the best possible humour with himself and the whole 
world. 

At two exactly the gay little Adrien reaj>peared under the 
cellar-like arch, and he was hastening up the gloomy staircase 
with his light and buoyant step, when the cracked voice of 
Madame Moreau called him back. He turned round and be¬ 
held that lady’s thin visage scowling at him from the entrance 
of the dark hole where she spent her life. “ Here is the key 
of your room,” she sharply said. 

“ Is grandmother out ? ” he falteringly asked, as he took 
the key. 

“ Yes, she is, and with Madame Mitron too ! ” and giving 
Adrien a look of resentful defiance, the portress vanished in 
her den. Adrien slowly ascended the staircase. How changed 
now looked the empty room. No neatly-laid table with the 
hot smoking soup awaited him after his hard morning’s work. 
The poor lad looked around him, sat down, and bowing his 
face between his hands, fairly wept. Of what use did it seem 
for him to work so hard, to be frugal and thrifty beyond his 
years, to save and stint in-order to live on the six francs a 
week, to come home with his light and cheerful bearing. His 
grandmother was gone, disgracing herself—disgracing him. 
When or how would she come back ? This last thought was 
indeed a thought of terror; the young are keenly alive to dis¬ 
grace. Adrien believe that his grandmother’s indiscretions had 
until now escaped notice; every one in the house knew of them, 
but with the native delicacy of French politeness, all feigned 
perfect unconsciousness; even cross old Mere Moreau spared the 
lad’s sensitive pride. u How cleverly I must have managed to 
smuggled her in,” he often thought, with secret exultation; 
and when he gave a sigh to his old relative’s errors, he reflect¬ 
ed, like Francis I. after the battle of Pavia, that honour at 
least was sale. 13ut if an exposure should take place now. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


353 


Oh ! then he must leave the house instantly—nay, the neigh¬ 
bourhood itself, and dim visions of quitting Paris altogether 
even floated across his brain. Adrien was too sad to prepare 
onion soup, so he dined on bread and dripping. Madame Mo¬ 
reau noticed his altered bearing and inflamed eyes, though he 
turned his head away, as he handed her the key on going down ; 
she took, or rather snatched it from him with her usual surliness, 
but her heart was touched at the lad’s evident sorrow. 

Amongst the habits of this lady (who had many) was that 
of emerging from her lodge towards twilight, like a night bird, 
in order to spend the fine summer evenings on the steps of the 
street door. Prom this tribunal of her misanthropy she phil¬ 
osophically surveyed the world, her arms defiantly folded on 
her breast, her head inclined towards her right shoulder, in 
mournful contemplation of human follies,—her whole attitude 
expressive of supreme disdain. A scornful sneer lit up her 
solemn feature on these occasions, and bitterly sarcastic re¬ 
marks fell from her lips. These remarks were not narrowly 
confined to peculiar subjects, or directed to certain individuals. 
Attacks on government, with Madame Moreau’s own sugges¬ 
tions, sneers at rival portresses over the way, lamb-like com¬ 
plaints of her own private wrongs, hints to ungrateful lodgers, 
who might regret her when she was dead and gone, mingled 
with sudden andfierce apostrophes directed towards unconscious 
and inoffensive passengers, formed the staple of discourses ad¬ 
dressed to the world in general, but of which the lodgers, who 
constantly came in and out at this hour, derived the full bene¬ 
fit. And much did they dread these evening objurgations in 
which, with her broken, half-abstracted manner, Madame 
Moreau contrived to disclose to the public their most private 
concerns. If Monsieur B. ill-used his wife, the portress railed 
at the men straightway, and with singular generosity she only 
became the more explicit in her narrative if there happened to 
exist any little difference between herself and Madame B. 

His knowledge of this touching peculiarity increased 
Adrien’s apprehensions as he came home in the evening. 
What if the old woman had returned, and Madame Moreau, 
mindful of the morning, should pity him aloud for having a 
drunken grandmother ! Oh, that there were only a back 
door! But there was none : and standing in awful majesty 
on the threshold of the arch, with a group of lodgers listening 
to her, he beheld Madame Moreau. He took courage, how¬ 
ever, and assuming a disengaged air, addressed the portress 
with a remark concerning the fineness of the weather. She 


35P 


SEVEN YEARS. 


gave him a sour look that implied, “ Do not imagine you can 
cheat or deceive me; ” but she merely said, u Sir, your key 
is hanging ou a nail in the lodge.” 

Adrien sighed to learn that his grandmother had not yet 
returned; but with all that, he felt grateful for the old por¬ 
tress’s forbearance. It was a sad evening for the lad, as he 
sat in the dark, stepping out on the landing every five minutes, 
peeping down the well-like staircase, listening anxiously when 
a knock was heard below, and feeling his heart leap up to his 
mouth every time the street door opened and closed again. 
Deceived by the step of other lodgers, he thought two or three 
times the truant was returned; a solemn moral reproof rose 
to his lips; nay, he would feign sleep and perfect indifference. 
But none of the steps ascended the seventh story, and every 
time his illusion vanished Adrien’s sorrow came back. The 
house had long been silent, when, towards eleven, he heard a 
weak tottering footstep. “ It is only the lodger below,” 
thought he, anxious not to deceive himself. But the staircase 
creaked, the step continued to ascend, it stopped on the land¬ 
ing, and a light gleamed through the chink of his door. 
Adrien opened it and saw Madame Mitron; she was alone. 

“ Where is grandmother ? ” he hastily exclaimed. 

“ Don’t know,” she thickly replied, endeavouring to open 
her door. 

“You shall not go in ; where is she ! ” cried Adrien, placing 
himself before her. 

“*1 tell you I do not know,” testily replied the old woman. 
“ We went to the barrier for a walk, had a salad, a glass of 
wine, and were coming home, when a crowd divided us at the 
end of the Pont-Neuf. A child had been run over ; people 
said it was not hurt; but I had got such a turn, that I was obliged 
to take five or six glasses of brandy at a grocer’s before I could 
get over it.” 

“ So,” indignantly said Adrien, “ you lured away my weak, 
innocent grandmother—the poor thing would never go to the 
barrier—and then abandoned her, when she does not know 
one street from another, and may get into any mischief. God 
forgive you! ” he mournfully added, as he turned away, with 
heart too full for more bitter reproach. 

“ God forgive me! you good-for-nothing little scamp,” 
screamed Madame Mitron with sudden rage, her eyes well 
nigh starting out of her head, as she shook her candlestick at 
Adrien. “God forgive me! How dare you hint at such a 
thing, you mite, you—” 


355 


SEVEN YEARS. 

The rest was lost upon Adrien, who hastily descended the 
staircase, heedless of her drunken railings. 

u Monsieur Adrien, if you think 1 am going to sit up for 
you” wrathfully observed the old portress, as he swiftly passed 
by her lodge; but the door being half open, he had reached 
the street before the end of her sentence. He went straight to 
the Pont-Neuf; the accident had occurred at noon; no one 
had seen his grandmother ; a few shops were still open ; he 
went in, made inquiries, and got laughed at for his pains. 
After wandering up and down until one, he went home, con¬ 
vinced that, in the agony of her remorse, his grandmother had 
made away with herself. “ She need not have been afraid, I 
would have forgiven her,” sadly thought Adrien. He had at 
first doubted whether his knock at the door would procure him 
admittance, but when, in reply to a shrill inquiry, he had given 
his name, it quickly opened. On seeing that he was alone, 
Madame Moreau gave a peculiar look and growled from be¬ 
neath the shadow of her peaked night-cap, and handing him a 
light, an act of singular courtesy, said, “ take that,” almost 
gently. 

Notwithstanding his sorrow, Adrien slept that night— 
youth will sleep—but with a sad, troubled slumber. Though 
the sun shone brightly in the little room when he woke up, he 
felt miserable. The unswept floor, the fragment of his last 
hurried meal on the table, the dusty mantel-shelf, the pot of 
reseda drooping for want of water, everything, even an old 
gown of his grandmother’s thrown on a chair, made him feel 
dispirited and low. He rose and dressed hurriedly; for 
breakfast he cared not; bread and dripping would do very 
well. Scarcely was he attired when a knock was heard at the 
door. “ Tidings from her,” thought Adrien, and he rushed 
to open. Alas! no; it was only misanthropic Madame Moreau, 
with an immense soup-plate full of good beef-tea in her hand. 

“ Come, take it,” said she, abruptly; “ you want it, wan¬ 
dering all night; those who did the mischief were safe in bed ; 
maybe they have good reasons to stay there,” she added, talk¬ 
ing and nodding with deep sarcasm at the door of Madame 
Mitron. “ But next Monday is rent day; we shall see whether 
those that drink and do not pay are to remain. Will you take 
this hot plate out of my hand, or am I to stay here all day % ” 
she sharply added, turning round on Adrien. He was profuse 
in his acknowledgments, but without heeding them, she hob¬ 
bled down-stairs, muttering her wonder that she had ever come 
up, and looking very surly, as though to apologize to herselt 


356 


SEVEN YEARS. 


for having- committed this little act of kindness. As he drank 
his soup, Adrien thought how much his grandmother would 
have relished it, and then he wondered where she was that 
morning, and whether she had got any breakfast. This latter 
thought made him feel that he must resume his search without 
loss of an instant. In a few minutes he was ready, and pro¬ 
ceeded hastily down-stairs. He had reached a third-floor 
when a hand laid heavily on his shoulder, made him turn 
round; he looked up and saw Grand Jean. 

“ Adrien,” said the tall Auvergnat, in a bashful, hesitating 
sort of manner, “ I am not busy this morning; I—I—can go 
with you, and help to look.” 

“ You are very kind,” replied Adrien; and as he shook 
Jean’s hand, he turned his head away; “very, especially after 
the insulting manner in which I spoke to you yesterday.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Jean, squeezing the lad’s hand so hard 
that other tears besides those of emotion rushed to liis eyes; 
“ you never insulted me, child.” 

“Yes, indeed, I did,” remorsefully answered Adrien. “It 
was the tone, you know ! ” 

“Well, never mind; I forgive you.” 

“ Impossible ! ” resumed Adrien, somewhat nettled; “ you 
do not know the badness there was in my heart against you. If 
it had not been for grandmother’s sake, I would have knocked 
you down.” 

“ Would you, indeed,” said Jean, with a grave, good- 
humoured smile, and giving the lad a slap on the shoulder 
that made him stagger. 

“ Yes, I would,” stoutly said Adrien, as soon as he had 
recovered his breath ; “so pray,” he mournfully added, “ do 
not be kind; I cannot bear it.” 

“ I tell you I bear no malice ; and you are such an in¬ 
significant-looking little fellow, that people will never mind 
you if you go alone ; so let us be off. ” 

Adrien bridled up, and wondered whether he could in 
honour accept of assistance thus offered. But Jean settled 
the matter by taking it for granted; and the lad, moreover, 
secretly felt the force of his reasoning; so without further re¬ 
sistance on his part, they sallied out. It was a hot, sultry day, 
and a long and weary walk fhey had. They visited barriers, 
and innumerable corps de gardes, or station houses, but no 
grandmother could be found. “ It is my fault,” said Adrien, 
desperately; “ I should have locked her up.” Jean with dif¬ 
ficulty persuaded him that he was not to blame. After a 


SEVEN YEARS. 


357 


search of several hoars, Jean began to lose all hope, but 
Adrien seemed unwearied. They at length lit on a clue to 
the object of their search in a remote corps de garde. An 
old, half-witted peasant-woman, unable to give a proper ac¬ 
count of herself, had been apprehended the preceding even¬ 
ing. 

“ Where is she ? ” cried Adrien, eagerly looking round. 
li Oh! she was gone before the magistrate, and was probably 
tried for vagabondage by this ! ” 

“Oh! Jean!” exclaimed Adrien, “let us go before they 
send her to prison.” 

He started off, and sped along the street at a rate with 
which Jean could scarcely keep up, and which made sober 
passengers stare. At length the police-court was reached ; it 
was crowded ; Adrien pushed right and left desperately, but 
in vain, till Grand Jean, with two or three vigorous elbowings, 
had cleared the way for his friend. Adrien paused not to 
utter thanks ; he sprang forward to the front of the court; 
a rapid glance showed him that the bewildered old woman who 
sat at the bar wringing her hands, and answering, with per¬ 
plexed look, the questions of the magistrate, was indeed, his 
grandmother. Forgetting everything in his joy, he hastily 
exclaimed with his own cheerful confident voice, “ Do not be 
afraid, grandmother ; I am here ; they won’t hurt you.” 

The old woman uttered a low exclamation, whilst every 
look went round the court in search of her protector, and lit 
at length on the diminutive form of Adrien with mingled 
amazement and surprise. 

“ Who is that child ? What does he want ? ” asked the 
magistrate. 

“ I am not a child, sir,” said Adrien, colouring, and rais¬ 
ing himself on tiptoe, “ I am a working man. I earn six 
francs a week. I am come for my grandmother, whom Mad¬ 
ame Mitron lured away.” 

“ Is this old woman your grandmother 1 ” said the magis¬ 
trate, smiling. 

“ Yes, sir,” answered Adrien, sighing. “ If she only took 
my advice, and not Madame Mitron’s, she would not be here. 

I am sure,” he continued, somewhat huskily, “ I do not ill-use 
her; I would scorn to ill-use a woman, much less my own 
grandmother. But then she does not like dripping nor onion 
soup, and we cannot afford butter or fricot (stew).” 

“Do not be hard upon me, Adrien,” sobbed the old 
woman. 


358 


SEVEN TEARS. 


“ No, grandmother, I will not, and I am sure Monsieur le 
President looks too kind to he hard upon you either. Monsieur 
will reflect that you are old, weak-minded, and that Madame 
Mitron, who is very cunning, takes you out to drink at your 
expense. You do not drink, grandmother,” he added, anxious 
to save her from the reproach of drunkenness, that most un¬ 
womanly vice, so rare in France. 

“And Monsieur le President,” here interposed Jean, laying 
his heavy hand on Adrien’s shoulder, “ spare the old woman for 
the sake of the lad, as honest a one as ever breathed. If,” he 
continued, heedless of Adrien’s indignant looks, “ if he does 
talk too much like a man, for one with such a beardless chin, 
why I say it is because he has the heart of a man.” 

The magistrate smiled. “ You are discharged,” said he to 
the old woman. “ Believe me, abide by your grandson’s ad¬ 
vice, and shun Madame Mitron.” 

He rose, for this was the last case, the assembly dispersed, 
and in a few minutes the place was empty. 

Adrien’s grandmother looked very much humbled and cast 
down as they went home. This distressed him infinitely; he 
did his best to cheer her, invented numberless excuses for her, 
and threw all the blame on luckless Madame Mitron. 

a But where is Jean ? ” said he, suddenly breaking off, and 
looking round as they turned the corner of their own street. 
Jean had vanished, and though Adrien knew it not, it was 
some time since they had parted company. Although evening 
was drawing on, Madame Moreau did not occupy that post on 
the door-step from which she surveyed and attacked the world. 
Adrien peeped into the lodge as he took his key; the lamp 
■was as usual dimly burning, but she who kept alive that sacred 
flame was invisible. 

“ Grandmother,” said Adrien, as they went up the stair¬ 
case, “ you are hungry of course; but,” added he, looking at 
her wistfully, “ I can only give you onion soup.” 

“ Anything, Adrien,” sobbed the old woman ; “ dripping 
itself is too good for me.” 

“ No, that it is not,” said he, resolutely; and if,” he add¬ 
ed, raising his voice, “ if any one should look sideways at you 
for what has passed, let that person expect to settle it with me. 
And if,” he continued, louder still, and looking defiantly at 
Madame Mitron’s door, for they had reached their own land¬ 
ing, “ if certain nameless individuals, be they men or be they 
women,” he loved the plural number for its dignity, “ should 
attempt to mislead you again, let them understand that they 


SEVEN YEARS. 


359 


have been mentioned to the magistrate, and that there are such 
things as commissaries of police.” Here Adrien paused in 
order to give Madame Mitron time to come forth and answer 
his challenge, but she remained within, fairly owning herself 
conquered. 

When they entered their own little room, Adrien stopped 
short, and uttered an exclamation of surprise: the floor was 
swept, the place had been carefully dusted and set to rights, 
the res6da was itself again, the table was laid out, and the 
charcoal fire only needed the application of a lighted match. 

“ This is all Madame Moreau’s doing,” said Adrien, “ and 
I,” he remorsefully added, “ I, who said so often she was a sour 
old thing! Grandmother,” he continued in his habitual and 
cheerful tone, “just light the fire, if you please. I will peel 
the onions.” 

In a few minutes the fire was kindled, the dripping was 
hot in the pan, and the onions on being cast in filled the room 
with their merry, hissing sound. 

“ Grandmother,” exclaimed Adrien, with glee, “ it will be, 
though made with dripping, the best soup you ever had. Not, 
mind you,” he prudently added, “ that butter may not be pre¬ 
ferable for some tastes, but if one cannot afford it, what is the 
use of not making the best of what one has ? ” 

A knock at the door interrupted Adrien’s discourse. u Come 
in,” cried he, thinking it was Jean. It was not Jean ; it was 
a waiter from a neighbouring cook-shop, who deposited a tray 
of covered dishes on the table. 

“ Monsieur Adrien ; paid for,” said he, sententiously, and 
he left the room ; whilst Adrien and his grandmother looked 
at one another in mute surprise. 

“ All! ” suddenly cried Adrien, “ I see now why Jean left 
us. Grandmother, look! here is a splendid stew of mutton 
and haricots ; you wished for one. And see this magnificent 
piece of veal! Why, there is enough for a week! Oh, where 
is Jean? ” 

He flew dowm-stairs, and searched on every on® of the 
seven floors, but neither Jean nor Madame Moreau w T ere to be 
found; like the genii of an eastern tale, they vanished wdien 
their favours were conferred. 

“ Grandmother,” said Adrien, as returning from his fruit¬ 
less search he sat clown with his old relative to their luxurious 
meal, “ I hope you will never go out again with Madame Mi¬ 
tron ; but if you had not gone, we should never have—” 




360 


SEVEN YEARS. 


u Had this good dinner,” put in the old lady, whose gour- 
mandise was not quite subdued. 

u No, grandmother,” said he, gravely, “ we should never 
have known how much kindness towards us there lay hidden 
in the hearts of Madame Moreau and Grand Jean.” 

Three years have passed away; Adrien, cheerful, honest, 
industrious as ever, inhabits the sunny old garret; but he has 
taken for his grandmother the room formerly occupied by 
Madame Mitron, who was disgracefully expelled shortly after 
the events we have narrated. Since this fortunate occurrence, 
his old relative has given Adrien no further trouble; and, as 
his earnings have greatly increased, they live, as he says, “ in 
luxurious style.” Grand Jean still dwells in the gloomy old 
house. He and Adrien are great friends; he occasionally 
banters the youth, who has not grown much, on his diminutive 
appearance; but Adrien, mindful of former kindness, and 
proud of his dawning moustache, takes it all very good-tem- 
peredly. Madame Moreau is as misanthropic as ever; but, 
as Adrien says, “ she is found out, and no one believes her 
now.” This, however, excites great wrath in the old portress, 
who takes as much pride in her fancied scorn and hatred of 
mankind, as others are apt to take in their imaginary philan¬ 
thropy and benevolence. 




THE MYSTERIOUS LODGER. 

Who does not like mystery ? The heartless, the cold, the 
unimaginative, assuredly. All poetical natures love it and 
live in it. Without mystery they exist not. Life is dull, 
commonplace, and cold, unless they have it. Give it to them, 
therefore, by all means. Let the Radcliffian cup of romance 
—but we will not anticipate. 

Monsieur Hyacinthe^ was a widower, of middle age and 
retired habits. He was pale, thin, and bald, but these unro¬ 
mantic peculiarities in his personal appearance did not prevent 
him from being a passionate lover of romance and mystery. 
Indeed it is a vulgar and sad mistake to suppose that only 
youth and beauty love romance and mystery. Youth and 
beauty have a great many other matters and objects to engross 
their attention. It often happens, too, that they are cool, 
calculating, and sometimes actually inclined to worldliness. 



SEVEN YEARS. 


361 


Monsieur Hyacinthe was timid and somewhat cautious. 
The world was so mysterious, the people in it were so full of 
mysteries, that really one could not be too careful. Thus 
Monsieur Hyacinthe had got to bo on his guard with every 
one, from his important and stately landlord, Monsieur 
Moreau, down to his sharp-tempered portress, Madame La- 
tour. 

Owing to this peculiarity in his temper, Monsieur Hy¬ 
acinthe resided alone in a small apartment on the third-floor 
of a quiet house in a lonely street. He kept no servant: the 
danger of living alone was not equal to the peril of having a 
perpetual spy and watch by his side, or, to use Monsieur Hy- 
acinthe’s own words, “ of cherishing a foe in his bosom.” 
But if Monsieur Hyacinthe had no servant he had a servant’s 
room, which he prudently under-let furnished when he could 
possibly secure a lodger, which was but seldom, owing, perhaps, 
to the gins and traps, in the way of preliminary conditions, 
with which he cautiously intrenched his premises. This room 
was in its usual state of vacancy, and Monsieur Hyacinthe, 
after perplexing his mind to discover for what peculiar mo¬ 
tive his room did not let when other rooms let all around 
him, had come to the conclusion that there was a fatality in it. 

“ There is a fatality in it,” he muttered, drawing on his 
night-cap ; and setting himself comfortably by the fireside, he 
opened his newspaper in order to read the detailed account of 
the last murder: like many timid individuals, Monsieur Hya¬ 
cinthe delighted in the sacl and the horrible. 

Monsieur Hyacinthe had not read a line when he was dis¬ 
turbed by a ring at the door. He laid down his paper, and 
with the coolness which a constant habit of such thoughts ren¬ 
dered natural, he said meditatively : 

“ Thieves! Of course I shall not open. It is too early 
for burglars.” 

The ring was impatiently repeated. 

“A visitor, perhaps!” pursued Monsieur Hyacinthe. 
“ Let him stay out—it is too late to receive visits.” 

A third time the ring was heard. 

Monsieur Hyacinthe’s heart turned cold. Such a ring at 
nine at night must be thieves, visitors, or fire. No sooner did 
the last fearful suggestion offer itself to his mind than, forget¬ 
ful of his night-cap or every prudential consideration, Mon¬ 
sieur Hyacinthe precipitately rushed to the door, which he 
flung open. 

A pale, slender, fair-haired young man about twenty, but 
16 


362 


SEVEN YE AES. 


whose manners were remarkably cool and self-possessed, was 
standing on the landing. He was showily attired, and smelt 
very strongly of Ean de Cologne; the thumb of his left hand 
v T as placed in his corresponding waistcoat pocket; in his 
other hand he held a small and flexible badine. 

“Well, sir,” said he, frowning on Monsieur Hyacinthe, as 
much as his very smooth forehead and eyebrows would allow 
him to frown, “ do you know that I have rung five times at 
your door ? ” 

“ I protest, sir,” stammered forth Monsieur Hyacinthe, 
“ I only heard three rings.” 

“ Then, sir,” observed the stranger, sternly eyeing him 
from head to foot, “ then, sir, it was extremely, exceedingly 
impertinent in you not to open sooner. You have a room to 
let—show it to me.” 

But Monsieur Hyacinthe, who disliked this authoritative 
tone, promptly replied that it was too late to see the room. 
“It is not the legal hour, sir,” he said, with some dignity ; 
“ the legal hour is from noon till sunset.” 

The stranger smoothed his chin, smiled, and replied 
blandly: 

“ And so, sir, you actually think that a gentleman will 
grope up three pair of stairs, ring at doors, and walk down 
again, balked of his will, because you please that it should be 
so. Sir, why is there a bill up ? I insist on seeing the room.” 

Monsieur Hyacinthe protested, but the stranger was per¬ 
emptory ; and as it was one of his, Monsieur Hyacintlie’s, 
maxims, that a wise man ought to submit to anything in 
order to avoid a present risk, he yielded at length, though not 
without calling on every one to witness that he was no longer 
a free agent. As the stranger was the only person who could 
hear this protest, it was useless; but Monsieur Hyacinthe’s 
conscience was satisfied—he had done everything which a 
brave and peaceable man could do, and he proceeded to show 
the furnished room to the stranger, now fully warned of his 
illegal conduct. The young man cast a careless look around 
him, observed that the room suited him, and throwing two 
gold pieces on the table, bade Monsieur Hyacinthe pay him¬ 
self for the first month’s rent, and keep the change until 
another month was up. 

“ Sir,” said Monsieur Hyacinthe, “you have not heard my 
conditions. I am a quiet man, sir; this room is near my 
rooms ; I like to be quiet. I allow no noise, sir, no loud 
talking, never any music or singing on any account. And I 


SEVEN YEAES. 303 

am particular, sir, very particular. I feel convinced this room 
would never suit you.” 

I like it,” said the stranger, £- and I like you.” 

Monsieur Hyacinthe nevertheless was going to declare 
that, though his visitor liked him, the room was not suited to 
him, and would not do at all, when the young man, not giv¬ 
ing him time to remonstrate, proceeded to inform him that he 
could apply to Madame Sebillard, number three, the next 
street, his present landlady and abode, for references; but 
that, as he hated hypocrisy, he would give him his character 
himself; and in order to do this with due comfort, he com¬ 
posedly sat down on the bed. 

,£ My name,” he began, ££ is Henri Benaudin. Is it my 
real name ? That is of no consequence. My father is rich : 
I might live in his hotel if I liked; but there is a step-mother 
in the way, and I wish to be free. Still you will say—Why 
come to a poor place like this ? I have private reasons for 
doing so ; but to satisfy you, we will say a whim brought me 
hither, or rather let it be the wish of studying human nature 
in all its infinite variety;” and as though pleased with this 
euphonious sentence, M. Benaudin repeated it several times in 
a complacent tone. 

M. Hyacinthe here wanted to slip in a remark ; but the 
other was too quick for him. ££ I know what you are going 
to say—Does my father allow me such? No; but I make 
him pay the same tailor’s bills two or three times over: I 
never pay my tailor myself; it is really too shabby,” added 
M. Benaudin, with profound contempt for the meanness of 
such an act. ££ You need not speak,” he continued, seeing that 
M. Hyacinthe was opening his mouth ; ££ I know what you are 
going to say—How do I get money ? The easiest thing in 
the world : I have already spent three fortunes, of which I 
never touched a sou. My mother’s fortune was the first. 
Oh, no ! now I think of it, it was my cousin’s five hundred 
thousand francs that went first. Ah! they are all gone. 
Then came my mother’s property—gone too ; and my old 
uncle’s fortune is going now. He is still alive, but he has 
made a will in my favour, so that I live on my future expec¬ 
tations. You seem astonished; it is very easy : I can put 
you in the way : borrow money at the rate of two or three 
hundred per cent., spend it, give parties, and so forth; you 
will find that a moderate fortune does not last much more 
than a year. But you look economical: well, then, let us 
say eighteen months, if you wish to seo old Isaac.” 


364 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


“ Thank you, sir,” precipitately interrupted M. Hyacinthe: 
“ you were speaking about your character ? ” 

“ You are welcome to it. In the first place, I am a dread¬ 
ful gambler and a fearful spendthrift. I delight in throwing 
money out of the windows, and seeing the people rush and 
fight for it. Does this window look out on the street ? No : 
ah, sorry for it. Never mind, we shall find an opportunity. 
I see you are greatly shocked; can’t help it, my dear sir— 
family failing—my mother was a charming woman, but very 
extravagant, yet greatly admired by the other sex; and, to 
say the truth, I believe that I have also inherited this peculiari¬ 
ty—that is to say, reversed ; but I hate vanity, so we will 
drop the subject. Well, I think you have my character cor¬ 
rectly now. Stop, I was forgetting one very remarkable pe¬ 
culiarity : I am dreadfully violent, a famous duellist, and 
when excited, would no more mind throwing you out of the 
window than I would the smoking of a cigar ; ” and as an apt 
illustration of this happy comparison, M. Renaudin drew a 
cigar from his cigar-case, and lighting it from the candle held 
by M. Hyacinthe, began smoking it with great composure. 

“ Sir,” ejaculated the alarmed M. Hyacinthe, endeavouring 
to smile, “ this is only some pleasant joke of yours. Remem¬ 
ber the window is very high ; you would not have ■ the heart 
to throw a poor man from a third floor ? ” 

But M. Renaudin said he had the heart to do anything; 
should feel extremely sorry when it was all over, but could 
not help it; had therefore thought it best to mention this 
weakness, as it would be more pleasant to both parties if noth¬ 
ing of the kind occurred. “ And now,” he added, “ that every¬ 
thing is explained, I think that, as I feel rather sleepy, you 
may leave me.” 

“ 1 cannot allow that,” uneasily exclaimed Monsieur Hy¬ 
acinthe ; “ I must give notice to the police.” 

“ I scorn the police,” answered Renaudin, with deep con¬ 
tempt. 

“ Sir,” indignantly exclaimed Monsieur Hyacinthe, who 
was gradually edging towards the door, “ you fail in the re¬ 
spect due to the constituted authorities : your language is very 
illegal.” 

“ 1 delight in everything illegal,” was Renaudin’s profane 
reply. 

“ Then, sir,” resolutely observed Monsieur Hyacinthe, now 
on the landing, “ I shall alarm the house.” 

“ Do,” answered Monsieur Renaudin ; “ there will be noise, 


SEVEN YEARS. 


365 


fighting, smashing of window-panes, &c.,—things in which I 
rejoice—another trait in my character. But if you have a 
bone or two broken in the affray, do not say you received no 
warning.” 

This was uttered with such suavity of manner, and the 
speaker had such a fair, meek face, of which the most promi¬ 
nent features were large eyes of a pale blue, a fat nose, and a 
retreating chin, that he did not seem the most likely indi¬ 
vidual to carry his threat into execution ; but Monsieur Ily- 
acinthe, who knew what horrible mysteries often lay hid under 
the fairest aspect, and who never trusted to personal appear¬ 
ances when his safety was at stake, submitted, though not 
without a protest, and ended by putting the two Napoleons 
in his pocket, and leaving Monsieur Renaudin master of the 
field of battle. Rear was not his only reason for acting thus : 
being a considerate man, he did not like to disturb a quiet 
house. Besides, he was not sorry to let his room to an indi¬ 
vidual who could afford to throw money out of the window ; 
for though it is very well to discountenance extravagant peo¬ 
ple, every one knows that it is profitable to deal with them in 
the long run. There might be, too, a vague mysterious pleas¬ 
ure for Monsieur Hyacinthe in having this mysterious indi¬ 
vidual under the same roof with himself; a pleasure the more 
exquisite, that his tenant’s room adjoined that in which he 
slept, and that when he, Monsieur Hyacinthe, had retired to 
bed, he could distinctly hear Monsieur Renaudin sneeze three 
times. Strange thoughts came to Monsieur Hyacinthe,—was 
this sneezing a signal, who knew, who could tell ? Dreams of 
Renaudin breaking open his door, and approaching his bed¬ 
side with a scowl, soothed Monsieur Hyacinthe’s slumbers 
that night. 

Early the next morning the mysterious lodger went out. 
As soon as he was down the staircase, Monsieur Hyacinthe, 
who had a double key, entered his room, and with a sigh of 
relief found that Monsieur Renaudin had carried away noth¬ 
ing ; which was the less surprising that, save an old candle¬ 
stick and a pair of snuffers, there was nothing portable in the 
room. 

This important fact being ascertained, Monsieur Hyacinthe 
hastened to call on Madame Sebillard. 

He found a busy, talkative lady, whose thoughts did not 
seem to go beyond the concerns of the furnished house of 
which she called herself mistress. At first she completely 
misunderstood his purpose, and insisted on letting him her 


366 


SEVEN YEARS. 


first-floor for the moderate sum of three hundred francs a 
month. “ A bargain, I assure you,” she said, “ a dead bar¬ 
gain.” 

“ Madame, you do not understand—” 

“ Oh, yes 1 do—you want that little back room with the 
chintz sofa. Well, then, you shall have it. 1 had promised 
it to the English lord ; but you shall have it.” 

“ Madame, you do not understand me,” austerely resumed 
Monsieur Hyacinthe; “ I came at this early hour to inquire 
into the character of a mysterious individual, who left you 
under strange and sudden circumstances yesterday evening. 
He called himself to me Renaudin; his real name you per¬ 
haps know.” 

Madame Sebillard’s busy face took a touch of melancholy. 

“ It was a great pity,” she said, “ but what could I do ? 
I liked him very much, the dearest, gentlest, meekest lamb I 
ever had, but what could I do % I put it to you sir ; if I did 
not take Renaudin’s room I could not let my second-floor. 
He bore the dismissal with angelic sweetness, quite entered 
into my feelings, and went to you, I suppose.” 

“ Madame, there is something in all this,” suspiciously 
said Monsieur Hyacinthe. “ You confess you dismissed this 
singular being from your house. What had he done ? who, 
what is he 1 ” 

“ The sweetest-tempered lodger I ever had, and the quiet¬ 
est,” replied Madame Sebillard ; “ I should have been delight¬ 
ed to keep him, if I could have let my second-floor without 
his room, but I could not. It was sad, very. As to what he 
does to earn a living, you had better ask him—I always took 
him to be an employe, or something of the sort.” 

This shallow attempt to impose on his credulity, Monsieur 
Hyacinthe was going to receive with an indignant remon¬ 
strance, when the appearance of a yellow-haired English 
family, in search of an apartment, made Madame Sebillard 
deaf and blind, or rather took and transferred her senses from 
him to her future lodgers. 

Monsieur Hyacinthe withdrew, profoundly disgusted with 
so much duplicity, and more than ever convinced of the 
universal tendency which every individual had to cheat and 
deceive him. As he entered the house in which he resided, 
meditating how all this would end, Madame Latour, the por¬ 
tress, screamed shrilly from her lodge : 

“ Monsieur Hyacinthe, will you please to give me ten sous 
for that letter ?—give it to him, Minna,—and another time, 


SEVEN YEARS. 


367 


Monsieur Hyacinthe, I shall be obliged to you if you will 
kindly tell me when you take in lodgers at nine at night.” 

Madame Latour’s niece, Minna, a stout, red-haired girl, 
handed the letter to Monsieur Hyacinthe, who hastily put it 
back on perceiving that it was directed to Monsieur Renaudin. 

“ With anything belonging to that man,” he said, solemn¬ 
ly, “ I will have nothing to do. There may be gunpowder in 
that letter, for all I know.” 

“ Gunpowder! ” said Madame Latour, coming forward, 
“ smell it, Minna.” 

Minna did as she was bid, and declared the letter was 
scented. 

“ Do not trust it! ” ejaculated Monsieur Hyacinthe, “ and 
do not trust the man to whom it is directed.” 

“ I have a great mind to put a match to it,” said Madame 
Latour, who had a Baconian turn for experiments. 

“ The risk be on your own head,” solemnly said Monsieur 
Hyacinthe, u but mark my words, Madame Latour, distrust 
that man—and mind your niece,” he added, darting a look at 
Minna, who heard him with open mouth and eyes. 

“ Mind my niece ! ” echoed Madame Latour. 

“ Ay, Madame Latour, mind her ! ” And Monsieur Hya¬ 
cinthe went up-stairs, leaving Madame Latour much excited. 

Minna was her niece, the daughter of her brother in the 
country, confided to her especial card, and Madame Latour 
was of opinion that Minna required strict watching and sound 
exhortation. Of the latter she now received a reasonable 
dose, with the concluding and irresistible argument of a slap 
on the face, which Madame Latour held essential to correct 
female discipline, and which, as a dutiful and affectionate aunt, 
she would not on any account have omitted. 

Not satisfied with warning every one against his lodger, 
Monsieur Hyacinthe kept strict watch on his motions, so as 
to leave him the scantiest opportunities of effecting any mischief. 
But though his vigilance was most persevering, he could dis¬ 
cover nothing reprehensible in the conduct of Monsieur Re¬ 
naudin, and for his opinion of that singular individual he was 
obliged to rely a good deal on Monsieur Renaudin himself. 
This strange being went out early in the morning and came 
home late at night, just like the most commonplace biped. 
Occasionally, indeed, he hinted in a dark and gloomy tone at 
certain deeds in which he had been engaged during the day; 
but though Monsieur Hyacinthe’s hair “ stood on end to 
hear him,” as he elegantly expressed it, this was all he could 


368 


SEVEN YEARS. 


learn, and every one agreed that the information was exceed¬ 
ingly vague. 

There was, however, a kind of fearful charm in Renaudin’s 
conversation for the peaceful Hyacinthe ; for though, of course, 
it was very shocking to hear his guest speak with unparallel¬ 
ed and revolting coldness of the innocent hearts he had broken 
through mere wantonness, and of the foes whom he had laid 
in mortal combat at his feet—without speaking of all the 
tailor’s bills which he had never paid—every one knows that 
those are subjects of the most thrilling interest, and which for 
a long time formed the very staple of modern fiction. 

No wonder, therefore, that Monsieur Hyacinthe, being fond 
of the dark and the dismal, was fascinated by the gloomy dis¬ 
course of Renaudin. Nor was he the only person on whom 
this mysterious individual exercised an influence. Every one 
in the house, from Monsieur Moreau the landlord, who lived 
on the first-floor, to Madame Latour in her lodge, and the 
little tailor in his garret, declared there was something incom¬ 
prehensible about that man. 

Monsieur Moreau, who, having once been a deputy, and 
voted against the freedom of the press, thought himself a 
marked man, asserted that it would be prudent to turn him 
out of the house at once, as he was probably the spy of a 
gang of thieves or conspirators, both of which characters were 
in his opinion identical; Madame Latour called him a liber¬ 
tine and mauvais sujet, and strictly forbade her niece to cast 
even a look upon him; the old tailor gave a very diffuse 
opinion, in which there was something about the degeneracy 
of human nature, and the cut of Monsieur Renaudin’s coat, 
which was not, it seems, at all orthodox. Monsieur Hya¬ 
cinthe, who knew most on the subject, said least; “ for,” as 
he sententiously observed, “ walls had ears.” Occasionally, 
however, he ventured to observe, that there was something 
fatal about his lodger’s look—that he was, like Napoleon, a 
child of destiny, &c.—with which observations every one 
agreed, as being remarkably applicable to Monsieur Renaudin. 

But such, however, was the exemplary conduct of this 
strange individual, so regularly did he pay his rent, and so 
nearly did he, upon the whole, behave like other people, that 
every one began to think him a commonplace fellow, and 
some persons went so far as to complain that they had been 
taken in. But events showed that their murmurs had been 
premature, and Renaudin soon let them see what he could do. 

Madame Latour rose one morning, unwarned by present^ 


SEVEN YEARS. 


369 


ments of evil against the approaching calamity. She called 
Minna, who slept in the same room, and on not hearing Minna 
answer, she thought nothing, save that Minna was oversleep¬ 
ing herself. She took a jug of cold water, which she held a 
sovereign remedy against sleepiness, opened the curtains, and 
prepared to let a few warning drops fall on Minna’s fair fore¬ 
head ; but, amazement! the bed was empty and cold,—Minna 
was flown. 

There could be no doubt about it. The young girl’s 
clothes and little valuables were gone, as well as her person. 
Madame Latour’s carefully-guarded and admonished niece had 
run away. But with whom ? Who could have thus fasci¬ 
nated her % Some one in the house, for Minna never went out. 
Was it Monsieur Moreau ? Monsieur Hyacinthe, or the old 
tailor ? Impossible 1 A flash of light crossed Madame La- 
tour’s mind,—it was Renaudin ! 

True, proof was wanting, but was tame, commonplace 
proof ever so potent as suspicion % Madame Latour’s suspi¬ 
cion proved to be a magnifying-glass of first-rate power, for 
she alarmed the house, called landlord and lodgers together, 
and vowed to be revenged on the artful Renaudin, should he 
presume to show his face again in the house, which every one 
agreed to be extremely unlikely. 

But Renaudin showed them that he was capable of any¬ 
thing, for he came home at his usual hour. Madame Latour 
began the attack by asking him politely—and her politeness, 
being very uncommon, always foreboded some deep insult— 
w'hat he had done with her niece, Minna % 

“ Ay, sir,” she continued, still sweet and smiling, “ I should 
like to know—-just out of curiosity—what you have done with 
her.” 

Monsieur Renaudin must have been a consummate actor, 
for his face expressed surprise apparently so unfeigned, that 
Monsieur Hyacinthe, who was listening and looking over the 
banisters, was almost staggered in his belief of Renaudin’s 
guilt. 

“ What I have done with your niece,” at length said the 
young man, “ why, truly, nothing, Madame.” 

“ I suppose, sir,” sharply said Madame Latour, “ I sup¬ 
pose, sir, you think I am blind, and that I did not notice the 
looks, sir,—mind, the looks my niece cast upon you % ” 

Monsieur Renaudin smiled and stroked his chin. 

“ I confess you have me there,” he said, blandly ; “ why yes, 
she did look at me. She did , and I will not deny but she may 

16 * 


3 TO 


SEVEN YEARS. 


have felt much, but I gave her no encouragement. On my 
honour, I did not.” 

“ Sir, what do you mean % ” fiercely asked Madame La- 
tour. “ Look at you 1 my niece look at you, a girl reared by 
me ! Say that you stared at her, sir, in a shameful, shameless 
way, but do not presume to assert that she cast a glance at 
you.” 

This sudden and extraordinary contradiction struck Re¬ 
mind in dumb. He stared at Madame Latour as if he thought 
that lady mad, and until she asked him what he meant by it, 
without giving him time to reply, she overwhelmed him with 
abuse. It was in vain that he opened his lips to answer her 
invectives by a word of self-defence; for when she at length 
paused, out of breath, Monsieur Hyacinthe, bending over the 
banisters, said meekly : 

“Well, I do think, sir, that you ought to give up this 
young girl. I do think you ought.” 

“I think so too,” said Monsieur Moreau, appearing at the 
head of the staircase, “ I am the landlord of this house, and it 
is my duty to insist on the deluded Minna being given up to 
her afflicted aunt.” 

“ And I say it is a shame Monsieur should talk as he has 
talked of a poor girl, who has given up everything for his 
sake,” said the little tailor, who was sitting in the lodge. 

“ I protest against the disappearance of this little red- 
haired girl being laid at my door,” indignantly exclaimed Re- 
naudin. “ It is a slander on my good taste to hint at it. A 
slander which I shall resent,” he added, looking around him 
with a fierceness which produced immediate, but brief, silence; 
for Madame Latour, being now exhausted, became hysterical, 
and declared that her darling Minna being gone, she had noth¬ 
ing to 'live for ; she partly revived, however, when her friends 
bade her rouse herself for the sake of her lodgers ; and she 
even exerted herself so much as to promise Monsieur Renau- 
din, who was now going up to his room, that she would soon 
be revenged upon him. 

“ Go up, sir,” she said, loftily, “ go up. You shall suffer 
for this yet.” 

And faithfully, indeed, did she keep her word. During a 
whole week her foe could neither leave nor enter the house 
without hearing himself reproached by Madame Latour with 
the abduction of her niece. But hatred has quick instincts ; 
and the portress soon perceived that the graceless Renaudin 
was rather flattered at being thus reminded of the impression 


SEVEN YEARS. 


371 


he had produced on the too-susceptible heart of the fair Min¬ 
na : she accordingly sought for a surer method of inflicting a 
wouhd, and soon found a very effectual one, which she prac¬ 
tised thrice with great success. This was to sleep so soundly 
at night, that she never heard her enemy’s knock at the door, 
and that, consequently, Monsieur Renaudin had to spend the 
night in the open air, which, as the portress managed to be 
particularly drowsy in rainy weather, was not always very 
pleasant. Of course when lie came in in the morning, Mon¬ 
sieur Renaudin raved at Madame Latour in an awful manner, 
and uttered such fearful threats of vengeance, that the 
alarmed Monsieur Hyacinthe assured her the whole affair 
would end in something dreadful. But the portress was a 
dauntless woman ; she continued to brave the anger of her 
foe in the most fearless manner, and seemingly without suffer¬ 
ing in consequence. 

Punishment, indeed, seemed in this case to fall on the head 
of the guilty individual; for such was the persecution Mon¬ 
sieur Renaudin sustained on the subject of Minna, that the 
unhappy gentleman declared, -in a tone of despair, he would 
leave the house unless it ceased. From morning till night, 
indeed, he heard of nothing but Minna. The female lodgers 
looked upon him with evident horror ; the men remonstrated 
with him ; and even the timid Monsieur Hyacinthe used the 
most persuasive arguments in order to induce him to give up 
Minna. 

“ Sir ! ” exclaimed Monsieur Renaudin, rolling his blue 
eyes in a portentous manner, “ if I hear the name of Minna 
again, I shall do something desperate ! ” 

As it did not escape Monsieur Hyacinthe that his lodger, 
whilst speaking thus, grasped a small pocket-pistol which was 
lying on the table, he hastened to retreat-; but when he-had 
left the room, he said in a loud tone,, though perhaps not quite 
loud enough to be heard, “ hard-hearted wretch ! ” 

But the circumstance of -the pistol, which he had never 
seen before, nevertheless dwelt in his mind. What did his 
lodger want it for % A duel or a suicide % Monsieur Hya¬ 
cinthe inclined rather towards the latter supposition. It 
seemed exceedingly likely that something fatal had befallen 
the unhappy Minna, and in such a case it was only natural 
that the guilty Renaudin’s mind should' be burdened with re¬ 
morse ; and every one knows that, in such dark and myste¬ 
rious characters, remorse leads to the most dreadful extremi¬ 
ties. The more he thought on the subject, the more Monsieur 


372 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


Hyacinthe became convinced that it was his lodger’s intention 
to commit some rash act; and remembering, with the most 
disinterested humanity, that he owed him nearly two months’ 
rent, he resolved to save him in spite of himself. He imme¬ 
diately communicated his suspicions to the portress and Mon¬ 
sieur Moreau, who both appeared much startled on hearing of 
the pistol. The landlord especially seemed thrown into an 
unusual state of agitation. He treated the idea of a suicide 
with mysterious contempt, and darkly asked Monsieur Hya¬ 
cinthe, if he had never heard of such things as political assas¬ 
sination, and pistol shots being fired at marked men ? After 
which he made some unintelligible allusion to a warning let¬ 
ter, but ended by declaring that the pistol should be secured 
by all means ; and that, in order to prevent him from com¬ 
mitting mischief, Renaudin should be locked up in his room. 
But who was to beard the lion in his den? The portress and 
Monsieur Moreau agreed that Monsieur Hyacinthe was the 
most fit person to be intrusted with such a task. This worthy 
individual, however, who entertained a most considerate re¬ 
gard for his personal safety, declared it would bo as much as 
his life was worth to undertake such an office, as he knew Re¬ 
naudin would fight like a tiger; but he hinted something 
about Monsieur Moreau’s great moral courage, and Madame 
Latour being safe on account of her sex ; upon which the 
landlord eyed him askance, muttering something about hidden 
accomplices, whilst the portress sharply asked “ if Monsieur 
Hyacinthe wanted to get rid of her that way ? ” It was at 
length agreed that the deed should be effected by cunning. 
At dead of night, therefore, when every one in the house was 
safely in bed and fast asleep, Madame Latour raised up an 
alarm of fire in most unearthly accents. The lodgers, being 
all warned, took no notice of the fact, with the exception of 
the luckless Renaudin, who flew out of his room, and rushed 
down stairs as pale and breathless as though it would not have 
been as sure a method of committing suicide to remain in bed 
whilst the house was on fire as any other'which he might 
adopt. Monsieur Hyacinthe, who was lying in ambush on the 
landing, immediately darted into the room, pounced upon the 
pistol, which was still lying on the table, caught up a box of 
razors, and hurried off with his spoil to his own apartment. 
On discovering that the alarm was a false one, Monsieur Re¬ 
naudin, who only saw in this another method taken by his 
enemy the portress to annoy him, gave her a ferocious look, 
and walked up to his room. His ill-humour was too great to 


SEVEN YE AES. 


373 


enable him to perceive his loss, and it lucklessly made him 
neglect to lock his door. 

But the next morning Monsieur Renaudin missed his 
razors, then his pistol, and ended by discovering that he was 
locked up. His cries soon brought Monsieur Hyacinthe to 
his door. The worthy gentleman then explained to his lodger 
through the key-hole that he was to remain a prisoner until 
he could prove that he no longer entertained hostile designs 
against his own person, and might be trusted with a debt. 
He added, however, that if Monsieur Renaudin would sol¬ 
emnly promise not to throw himself into the Seine, nor to 
leap down from the towers of Notre Dame, nor to destroy 
himself in any manner whatsoever; and if he would pay 
down to him, Monsieur Hyacinthe, the two months’ rent 
which he owed him, and another month’s rent to which he 
was entitled, not having received warning, he would see what 
he could do in order to free him from his bondage in two or 
three days’ time. These conditions were, however, indignantly 
rejected by Monsieur Renaudin, who vowed that he would 
have justice if there was law in the land, and appealed to the 
police for protection. But Monsieur Hyacinthe reminded 
him that, as he delighted in. everything illegal, and scorned the 
police, he had no right to complain ; and thus ended the con¬ 
ference. 

After walking about his room for some time in a state of 
great indignation, Monsieur Renaudin gradually cooled down, 
and requested to speak to Monsieur Hyacinthe and Monsieur 
Moreau. When they were both on the landing, he again de¬ 
manded an explanation of their conduct. Monsieur Hyacinthe 
replied by saying that a pistol had been found in his room, 
and by hinting something about the unhappy Minna. 

“ Minna again ! ” groaned the captive in a tone of despair; 
adding, with reckless calmness : “ How long do you mean to 
keep me a prisoner, and when will you give me anything to 
eat ? ” *ft 

Monsieur Hyacinthe pretended not to hear this last ques¬ 
tion ; and after a good deal of hesitation, Monsieur Moreau 
said something about feeding one’s enemies, and promised to 
send up Monsieur Renaudin his breakfast. This meal, how¬ 
ever, only consisted of a cup of cold coffee, with a very scanty 
supply of bread ; but such as it was, Monsieur Moreau took 
the precaution of not delivering it to the captive without pre¬ 
viously exacting from him a solemn promise of not attempt¬ 
ing to escape for the whole of that day. Monsieur Renaudin, 


374 


SEVEN YEARS. 


who was hungry, would have promised anything, and 
readily complied with this condition; the more so, as Mon¬ 
sieur Moreau artfully gave him to understand that he was 
going to get a dejeuner a la fourchette. When he saw the 
deceit which had been practised upon him, he gave vent to his 
irritated feelings in bitter and gloomy language “ about 
blighted hopes, and people being driven to desperate deeds. 5 ’ 
Monsieur Hyacinthe, who was listening on the landing, shud¬ 
dered as he remembered that the window was not fastened ; 
but Iienaudin was probably too much bent on vengeance to 
think of self-destruction, for he quietly ate his bread, drank 
his coffee, and when a few hours had passed away,.asked if 
dinner was ever going to come up, or if they meant to starve 
him. In answer to this question, a dish of onion soup, with 
cold mutton and bread, soon made their appearance; but on 
beholding this sorry fare, Monsieur Renaudin became so in¬ 
dignant, that he threatened to break all the window panes in 
his room. Monsieur Hyacinthe, alarmed by this menace, 
pacified him by a dubious promise of mending his bill of fare 
the next day. As he was meditating, however, on the best 
means of eluding this engagement, an event occurred, which 
relieved him from his embarrassment. 

News were received of Minna, who had now been gone 
more than a week. The father of the fugitive wrote to apol¬ 
ogise for the conduct of his daughter, who, unable to bear a 
longer absence from home, had returned to the bosom of her 
family. Madame Latour was greatly incensed by this ex¬ 
planation of the guilty Minna’s conduct; and though the in¬ 
nocence of Renaudin was now clearly proved, she threw the 
whole blame upon him. Every one, indeed, felt disappointed 
at this commonplace conclusion, and, like the portress, found 
fault with the luckless Renaudin. They had got into the habit 
of associating his name with that of Minna—no longer the 
unhappy ; they had looked upon him with suspicion and hor¬ 
ror ; 'he had been for them that favourite theatrical character 
—the traitor of the melo-drama ; and lo ! he now turned out 
to be a false traitor ! In short, Monsieur Renaudin was now 
despised for not having committed the act which had drawn 
down persecution upon him. Monsieur Hyacinthe himself, 
who, when pleading the cause of Minna, had termed his lodger 
“ a hard-hearted wretch ! ’’ no sooner found him to be inno¬ 
cent, than he contemptuously called him “ a mean and spirit¬ 
less fellow ! ” Monsieur Moreau was the only individual who 
showed no disappointment or surprise. “He knew all along,” 


SEVEN YEARS. 


375 * 


he observed, “ that Minna had nothing to do with Renau- 
din’s presence in the house.” And he dropped such myste¬ 
rious hints on the subject, that every one shrewdly concluded 
there must be something in it. On being informed by Mon¬ 
sieur Hyacinthe of the turn the affair had taken, Monsieur 
Renaudin naturally enough expected to be released from his 
captivity ; but though his landlord told him that he was free, 
it struck Monsieur Renaudin that there was something very 
peculiar in his manner as he did so. Monsieur Hyacinthe’s 
first act, when this explanation was over, was to request his 
lodger to pay him the two months’ rent, which happened to 
be due that very same day. Monsieur Renaudin threw him 
the money with silent scorn ; but without heeding this, his 
landlord examined each piece of silver with minute attention, 
counted and recounted the sum, and at length, apparently sat¬ 
isfied that it was right, put it into his pocket. When this 
was over, he produced a small packet of papers, which he laid 
on the table before his lodger. Monsieur Renaudin saw that 
the papers were the bills of different tradesmen, concerning 
heavy debts contracted towards them by a Monsieur de St. 
Maur. After eyeing them one by one with a bewildered look, 
he asked an explanation of Monsieur Hyacinthe ; but his land¬ 
lord affected not to understand him. “ Surely Monsieur 
needed no explanation; tradespeople had come to inquire 
whether Monsieur de St. Maur lived in the house; and 
though Monsieur had changed his name, they gave such an 
accurate description of his person, that Madame Latour knew 
it must be he. He had nothing to do with the whole affair ; 
and if the next time Monsieur went out he was apprehended 
by the gardes du commerce, he could not prevent it.” 

“ Sir,” said Monsieur Renaudin, with a sort of desperate 
calmness, “ before we attempt to elucidate this new and mys¬ 
terious affair, let me know whether I am to hear anything 
more about the unhappy Minna.” 

Monsieur Hyacinthe gravely replied that the Minna affair 
was over ; on hearing w T hich, his lodger thanked Heaven with 
great fervour—for he had felt it impossible to divest himself 
of secret misgivings on this point—and proceeded to inform 
him that he laboured under a mistake in supposing him to be 
Monsieur de St. Maur. But Monsieur Hyacinthe only smiled 
incredulously. “ It was no business of his, but Monsieur 
could not expect him to believe this.” Such, however, seemed 
to be Monsieur Renaudin’s intention; but his efforts proved 
fruitless. Monsieur Hyacinthe remained convinced that 


376 


SEVEN YEARS. 


Monsieur’s real name was not Renaudin, and must conse¬ 
quently be St. Maur. Monsieur had his private reasons for 
lodging in such a poor place as this; Monsieur thought it 
shabby to pay his tailor ; evidently Monsieur w r as the indi¬ 
vidual in question.” 

“ Very well,” returned the exasperated Renaudin, “ I sup¬ 
pose I am Monsieur de St. Maur. But granting this, what 
business is it of yours ? ” he fiercely added. 

“ Don’t bully me, sir ! ” loftily observed Monsieur Hya- 
cinthe, making a dignified retreat towards the door. “ I am 
not one of your unfortunate tradesmen to bear with it. If 
you wish to leave this house, you can do so at once.” 

“ 1 protest against this,” exclaimed a voice from the land¬ 
ing ; “ and I hope that if Monsieur has anything like decent 
feeling left, he will wait for the arrival of the two police offi¬ 
cers for whom I am going to send, and who cannot be long 
without making their appearance, and allow himself to be 
quietly taken to prison.” 

“To prison!—police officers! Well, what have I done 
now' ? ” asked Renaudin, with a gloomy smile. “ Killed or 
murdered ? ” 

“ Monsieur Hyacinthe,” continued the voice on the landing, 
“ 1 call you to witness that he has confessed his horrible in¬ 
tent in the plainest terms ! No, sir, you have not done the 
deed, but your design against my life v r as not the less crim¬ 
inal. I consider my escape a miraculous one ! ” 

At the conclusion of this speech, Monsieur Moreau, who 
was the speaker, ventured so far as to look into the room, 
though he prudently remained behind Monsieur Hyacinthe, 
whose person acted as an effectual shield for his own. 

“ Now what does this mean ?” wildly exclaimed the un¬ 
happy Monsieur Renaudin. 

“ This means,” continued Monsieur Moreau, “ that Mon¬ 
sieur’s real character and designs are now known; that there 
are such things as traitors among conspirators, and that peo¬ 
ple may receive letters by which they learn that they are 
going to be murdered; and though the name of the mur¬ 
dered may be concealed, Monsieur will easily understand that 
there is no difficulty in guessing at it.” 

The unhappy Monsieur Renaudin heard this speech in the 
silence of dismay; but when it was over—“ So,” he ex¬ 
claimed, sinking down on a seat in a kind of solemn fury, “ so 
it seems no silly girl can run off, no madman squander his 
money, and no fool think himself a murdered man, but I 


SEVEN YEARS. 377 

must be the seducer, the spendthrift, and the assassin! 
Really, gentlemen, I am greatly obliged to you.” 

“ Sir,” drily replied Monsieur Hyacinthe, “ I had your 
character from your own lips; and events have shown that 
you were, as you boasted, remarkably sincere.” 

Monsieur Renaudin thrust his left hand into the opening 
of his waistcoat, and assumed the Napoleon attitude, in order 
to bid defiance to his enemies with more effect; but a bright 
thought seemed to flash across his mind, and he suddenly 
checked himself. 

“ Leave me,” said he, in an authoritative tone; “ and let 
me have pen, ink, and paper : there is that on my mind which 
must be revealed. Yes,” he solemnly added, “ all shall be 
confessed. But remember,” he continued, in a menacing tone, 
“ to let no one even approach the door of this room, or linger 
on the staircase, until half an hour.at least has elapsed.” 

Rear and curiosity induced Monsieur Moreau and Mon¬ 
sieur Hyacinthe to comply with this request; for the former 
was full}' convinced that the alarmed Renaudin was going to 
sacrifice his friends to his safety, and reckoned on the names 
of a dozen accomplices at the very least; whilst Monsieur 
Hyacinthe gloomily congratulated himself on the tale of horror 
which his lodger was going to unfold. A lingering feeling of 
suspicion, however, induced them to remain on the first-floor 
landing until the half hour was over, when they impatiently 
hurried up-stairs. Renaudin’s room door was partly open, 
and Monsieur Hyacinthe cautiously peeped in. A light was 
burning on the table, and a letter w r as lying near it ; but 
Renaudin had vanished. The truth flashed across his mind; 
he rushed in, tore the letter open, and read its contents aloud : 

“ The manifold persecutions which I have endured in this 
house compel me to retire from the shelter of its inhospitable 
roof, as I feel convinced that designs against either my life or 
property arc entertained by certain individuals who dwell be¬ 
neath it. All I say to my persecutors is, that they may live 
to repent of their conduct.” 

“ Monsieur Hyacinthe,” exclaimed Monsieur Moreau, in 
a prophetic tone, “ mark my words—I am a dead man ; ” and 
he retired to his apartment with the heroic air of a man re¬ 
signed to the prospect of being shot at the first opportunity. 

But Monsieur Hyacinthe’s personal fears were out¬ 
weighed on this occasion by his curiosity, which was greatly 
excited by Renaudin’s mysterious disappearance. Madame 
Latour’s assertion, that the fugitive had effected his escape by 


378 


SEVEN YEARS. 


going down a back staircase, and opening the street door 
whilst she was asleep in her lodge, he always treated with the 
contempt which such a commonplace explanation deserved. 
Indeed Monsieur Hyaeinthe would have been rather sorry to 
find out the truth. * As his late lodger owed him nothing, and 
had done him no real injury, he found it pleasant, upon the 
whole, to have been connected with such a fearful and desper¬ 
ate character. There was, as he poetically expressed it, “ a 
horrid charm in it, and food for the imagination.” Fate, how¬ 
ever, seemed perversely bent on dispelling the romance and 
mystery with which he had invested Renaudin, and to show 
this luckless individual in the most commonplace aspect. In 
the first place, it was ascertained shortly after his disappear¬ 
ance, that he was not Monsieur cle St. Maur ; then, as though 
this was not bad enough, Monsieur Hyaeinthe discovered, 
amongst the few articles which his lodger had left behind him, 
a small book, from which he learned that Monsieur Renaudin 
had 1500 francs in the savings’ bank—a mean and paltry 
piece of economy which made Monsieur Hyaeinthe justly in¬ 
dignant, as affording another proof of the gross manner in 
which he had been taken in. He was still smarting under the 
mortification of this discoverv, when a friend of his treaeher- 
ous lodger came to claim, in his name, the pistol—which also 
turned out to be a mere counterfeit, as, whether loaded with 
powder or lead, it would not go off—the razors, and the book. 
Monsieur Hyaeinthe delivered up the articles with a hope 
that this was the last time he should hear of their owner. 
Such, however, was not to be the case, for the very same day 
Madame Latour triumphantly asked him if he knew who 
Renaudin was ? Monsieur Hyaeinthe said “ No,” with the air 
of a man resigned to anything he may hear. 

“ I got it all out of his friend ! ” exclaimed the portress, 
with evident exultation. “ lie is—a hairdresser ! ” 

Monsieur Hyaeinthe was at first stunned by this new blow: 
the splendid, the extravagant, the terrible Renaudin a hair¬ 
dresser ! But no ! it could not be ! he would not believe it. 

But, alas ! even his scepticism was obliged to yield to the 
evidence of his senses ; for the hairdresser to whose establish¬ 
ment the redoubtable Renaudin belonged, took a shop in a 
neighbouring street, so that longer doubt was impossible. 
There have been, however, such things as romantic hairdress¬ 
ers ; but though Monsieur Hyaeinthe fancied for a time that 
Renaudin might belong to that class, this was a short-lived 
illusion. The young man, according to the universal testi- 


SEVEN YEAKS. 


379 


mony, led a most exemplary life : instead of going to drink 
or dance at the barrier, he spent his Sundays with his family, 
occasionally indulging in the harmless amusement of taking 
out his sisters for a walk. On learning these circumstances, 
Monsieur Ilyacinthe bitterly declared that “ he gave him up.” 
His only comfort under this trying dispensation was, that 
Renaudin afforded a living proof of the tendency which made 
every individual seek to cheat and deceive him. 

There is no knowing how Monsieur Moreau might have 
acted under the influence of the dangerous neighbourhood in 
which lie was now placed, if he had not discovered about this 
time that the anonymous letter which had caused him so much 
alarm was only a practical joke of one of his friends—a fact 
which he took in high dudgeon. As for Monsieur Renaudin, 
he seemed to bear very philosophically the degrading position 
to which he was reduced in the eyes of his former acquaint¬ 
ances. Perhaps he had learned, from personal experience, 
that though it is very fine and agreeable to be thought a des¬ 
perate sort of character, it occasionally happens to be incon¬ 
venient, as there are simple people who will take you at 
your word, whatever ill qualities you may bestow on your¬ 
self. However that may be, it will perhaps be gratifying to 
the reader to state, that Renaudin continues to be the same 
exemplary character he always was ; he has forsworn all am¬ 
bitious thoughts, and is satisfied with being considered one of 
the most prudent, economical, and gentle professors of his 
gentle craft. 




AN EXCELLENT OPPORTUNITY. 

The Rue St. Denis is a busy place in Paris ; for it is dirty, 
thronged, and wealthy. We all know that those tall dingy 
houses might be gilt if they chose, and that if they remain 
gloomy and dull, it is because gloom and dulness of aspect are 
business-like, and have been so from time immemorial. Thus 
on looking at those houses there arise in the beholder’s mind 
vague visions of vast commerce; of bales of goods piled in 
lofty rooms; of dusty ledgers and account books, a goodly 
library, and, above all, of busy wrinkled men, who have grown 
bent and grey in the noble art of making money. 

The streets leading to the Rue St. Denis share in its priv¬ 
ileges ; they are dirty, gloomy, and thoroughly business-like. 



380 


SEVEN YEARS. 


In one of those streets there stands a tall and ancient house, 
not different in that respect from its neighbours, the lower 
portion of which is a large mercer’s shop. This establishment 
is held to be one of the very best in the neighbourhood, and 
has for many years belonged to an individual on whom we will 
bestow the name of Ramin. 

About ten years ago, Monsieur Ramin was a jovial red¬ 
faced man of forty, who joked his customers into purchasing 
his goods, flattered the pretty grisettes outrageously, and now 
and then gave them a Sunday treat at the barrier, as the 
cheapest way of securing their custom. Some people thought 
him a careless, good-natured fellow, and wondered how, with 
his off-hand ways, he contrived to make money so fast, but 
those who knew him well saw that he was one of those who 
“ never lost an opportunity.” Others declared that Monsieur 
Ramin’s own definition of his character was, that he was a 
“ bon enfant,” and that “ it was all luck.” He shrugged his 
shoulders and laughed when people hinted at his deep scheming 
in making, and his skill in taking advantage of, excellent 
opportunities. 

He was sitting in his gloomy parlour one fine morning in 
spring, breakfasting from a dark liquid honoured with the 
name of onion soup, glancing at the newspaper, and keeping a 
vigilant look on the shop through the open door, when his old 
servant Catherine suddenly observed: 

“ I suppose you know Monsieur Bonelle has come to live 
in the vacant apartment on the fourth floor ? ” 

“ What! ” exclaimed Monsieur Ramin in a loud key. 

Catherine repeated her statement, to which her master lis¬ 
tened in total silence. 

“Well!” he said at length, in his most careless tone, 
“ what about the old fellow ? ” And he once more resumed 
his triple occupation of reading, eating, and watching. 

“ Why,” continued Catherine, “ they say he is nearly 
dying, and that his housekeeper, Marguerite, vowed he could 
never get up-stairs alive. It took two men to carry him up-; 
and when lie was at length quiet in bed, Marguerite went 
down to the porter’s lodge and sobbed there a whole hour, 
saying, ‘ Her poor master had the gout, rheumatism, and a 
bad asthma; that though he had been got up-stairs, he would 
never come down again alive; that if she could only get him 
to confess his sins and make his will, she would not mind it so 
much : but that when she spoke of the lawyer or the priest, he 


SEVEN YE AES. 


381 


blasphemed at her like a heathen, and declared he would live 
to bury her and every body else.” 

Monsieur Ramin heard Catherine with great attention, 
forgot to finish his soup, and remained for five minutes in pro¬ 
found rumination, without so much as perceiving two custom¬ 
ers who had entered the shop, and were waiting to be served. 
When aroused, he was heard to exclaim : 

“ What an excellent opportunity ! ” 

Monsieur Bonello had been Ramin’s predecessor. The 
succession of the latter to the shop was a mystery. No one 
ever knew how it was that this young and poor assistant 
managed to replace his patron. Some said that he had' 
detected Monsieur Bonelle in frauds which he threatened to 
expose, unless the business were given up to him as the price 
of his silence; others averred that, having drawn a prize in 
the lottery, he had resolved to set up a fierce opposition pver 
the way, and that Monsieur Bonelle, having obtained a hint of 
his intentions, had thought it most prudent to accept the 
trifling sum his clerk offered, and avoid a ruinous competition. 
Some charitable souls—moved no doubt by Monsieur Bonelle’s 
misfortune—endeavoured to console and pump him ; but all 
they could get from him was the bitter exclamation, 11 To 
think I should have been duped by him! ” For Ramin had 
the art, though then a mere youth, to pass himself off on his 
master as an innocent provincial lad. Those who sought an 
explanation from the new mercer were still more unsuccessful. 
“ My good old master,” he said in his jovial way, “ felt in need 
of repose, and so I obligingly relieved him of all business and 
botheration.” 

Years passed away; Ramin prospered, and neither thought 
nor heard of his “ good old master.” The house, of which he 
tenanted the lower portion, was offered for sale : he had long 
coveted it, and had almost concluded an agreement with the 
actual owner, when Monsieur Bonelle unexpectedly stepped 
in at the eleventh hour, and by offering a trifle more secured 
the bargain. The rage and mortification of Monsieur Ramin 
were extreme. He could not understand how Bonelle, whom 
he had thought ruined, had scraped up so large a sum; his 
lease was out, and he now felt himself at the mercy of the man 
he had so much injured. But either Monsieur Bonelle was 
free from vindictive feelings, or those feelings did not blind 
him to the expediency of keeping a good tenant; for though 
he raised the rent, until Monsieur Ramin groaned inwardly, 


382 


SEVEN YEANS. 


lie did not refuse to renew the lease. They had met at that 
period ; hut never since. 

u Well, Catherine,” observed Monsieur Ramin to his old 
servant, on the following morning, “ how is that good Monsieur 
Bonelle getting on ? ” 

“ I dare say you feel very uneasy about him,” she replied, 
with a sneer. 

Monsieur Ramin looked up and frowned. 

“ Catherine,” said he, dryly, “ you will have the goodness, 
in the first place, not to make impertinent remarks; in the 
second place, you will oblige me by going up-stairs to in¬ 
quire after the health of Monsieur Bonelle, and say that I sent 
you.” 

Catherine grumbled, and obeyed. Her master was in the 
shop, when she returned in a few minutes, and delivered with 
evident satisfaction the following gracious message : 

“ Monsieur Bonelle desires his compliments to you, and 
declines to state how he is; he will also thank you to attend 
to your own shop, and not to trouble yourself about his 
health.” 

“ How does he look ? ” asked Monsieur Ramin, with per¬ 
fect composure. 

“ I caught a glimpse of him, and he appears to me to be 
rapidly preparing for tire good offices of the undertaker.” 

Monsieur Ramin smiled, -rubbed his hands, and joked 
merrily with a dark-eyed grisette, who was cheapening some 
ribbon for her cap. That girl made an excellent bargain 
that day. 

Towards dusk the mercer left the shop to the care of his • 
attendant, and softly stole up to the fourth story. In answer 
to his gentle ring, a little old woman opened the door, and, 
giving him a rapid look, said briefly: 

“ Monsieur is inexorable; he won’t see any doctor what¬ 
ever. ” 

She was going to shut the door in his face, when Ramin 
quickly interposed, under his breath, with “ I am not a 
doctor.” 

She looked at him from head to foot. 

“ Are you a lawyer ? ” 

“ Nothing of the sort, my good lady.” 

“ Well, then, are you a priest ? ” 

“ I may almost say, quite the reverse.” 

“ Indeed you must go away, master sees no one.” 


SEVEN YEARS. 


383 


Once more she would have shut the door; but Ramin 
prevented her. 

“ My good lady,” said he, in his most insinuating tones, 
u it is true I am neither a lawyer, a doctor, nor a priest. I 
am an old friend, a very old friend of your excellent master; 
I have come to see good Monsieur Bonelle- in his present afflic¬ 
tion.” 


Marguerite did not answer, but allowed him to enter, and 
closed the door behind him. He was going to pass from the 
narrow and gloomy ante-chamber into an inner room—whence 
now proceeded a sound of loud coughing—when the old wo¬ 
man laid her hand on his arm, and raising herself on tiptoe 
to reach his ear, -whispered : 

“For Heaven’s sake, sir, since you are his friend, do talk 
to him; do tell him to make his will, and hint something 
about a soul to be saved, and all that sort of thing : do, 


sir ! 


v 


Monsieur Ramin nodded and winked in a way that said 
“ I will.” He proved, however, his prudence by not speak¬ 
ing aloud; for a voice from within sharply exclaimed : 

“ Marguerite, you are talking to some one. Marguerite, I 
will see neither doctor nor lawyer ; and if any meddling priest 
dare—” 

“ It is only an old friend, sir,” interrupted Marguerite, 
opening the inner door. 

Her master, on looking up, perceived the red face of Mon¬ 
sieur Ramin peeping over the old woman’s shoulder, and ire- 
fully cried out: 

“ How dare you bring that fellow here ? And you, sir, 
how dare you come ? ” 

“ My good old friend, there are feelings,” said Ramin, 
laying his hand on his heart,—“ there are feelings,” he repeat¬ 
ed, “ that cannot be subdued. One such feeling brought me 
here. The fact is, I am a good-natured, easy fellow, and I 
never bear malice. I never forget an old friend, but love to 
forget old differences when I find one party in affliction.” 

He drew a chair forward as he spoke, and composedly 
seated himself opposite to his late master. 

Monsieur Bonelle was a thin old man, with a pale sharp 
face and keen features. At first he eyed his visitor from the 
depths of his vast arm-chair; but, as if not satisfied with this 
distant view, he bent forward, and laying both hands on his 
thin knees, he looked up into Ramin’s face with a fixed and 


384 


SEVEN YE AES. 


piercing gaze. lie had not, however, the power of disconcert¬ 
ing his guest. 

“ What did you come here for ? ” he at length asked. 

u Merely to have the extreme satisfaction of seeing how 
you are, my good old friend. Nothing more.” 

u Well, look at me—and then go.” 

Nothing could be so discouraging : but this was an ex¬ 
cellent opportunity, and when Monsieur Ramin had an ex¬ 
cellent opportunity in view, his pertinacity was invincible. 
Being now r resolved to stay, it was not in Monsieur Bonelle’s 
power to banish him. At the same time, he had tact enough 
to render his presence agreeable. He knew that his coarse 
and boisterous wit had often delighted Monsieur Bonelle of 
old, and he now exerted himself so successfully as to betray 
the old man two or three times into hearty laughter. 

u Ramin,” said he, at length, laying his thin hand on the 
arm of his guest, and peering with his keen glance into the 
mercer’s purple face, “ you arc a funny fellow", but I know 
you; you cannot make me believe you have called just to 
see how I am, and to entertain me. Come, be candid for 
once; what do you want ? ” 

Ramin threw himself back in his chair, and laughed blandly, 
as much as to say, “ Can you suspect me ? ” 

“ I have no shop now out of which you can wdieedle me,” 
continued the old man ; “ and surely you are not such a fool 
as to come to me for money.” 

“ Money ? ” repeated the draper, as if his host had men¬ 
tioned something he never dreamt of. “ Oh, no ! ” 

Ramin saw it would not do to broach the subject he had 
really come about too abruptly, now that suspicion seemed 
so wide awake— the opportunity had not arrived. 

“ There is something up, Ramin, I knov T ; I see it in the 
twinkle of your eye; but you can’t deceive me again.” 

“ Deceive you ? ” said the jolly schemer, shaking his head 
reverentially. “ Deceive a man of your penetration and 
depth ? Impossible ! The bare supposition is flattery. My 
dear friend,” he continued, soothingly, “ I did not dream of 
such a thing. The fact is, Bonelle, though they call me a 
jovial, careless, rattling dog, I have a conscience ; and, some¬ 
how, I have never felt quite easy about the wa} r in which. I 
became your successor downstairs. It was rather sharp 
practice, I admit.” 

Bonelle seemed to relent. 

“ Now for it,” said the opportunity hunter to himself.— 


SEVEN YEAES. 


385 


“ By-the-by ” (speaking aloud), “ this house must be a great 
trouble to you in your present weak state ? Two of your 
lodgers have lately gone away without paying—a great nui¬ 
sance, especially to an invalid.” 

“ I tell you I’m as sound as a colt.” 

“ At all events, the whole concern must be a great bother 
to you. If I were you I would sell the house.” 

“ And if I were you ,” returned the landlord dryly, “ I 
would buy it,—” 

“ Precisely,” interrupted the tenant eagerly. 

“ That is, if you could get it. Phoo ! I knew you were 
after something. Will you give eighty thousand francs for 
it ? ” abruptly asked Monsieur Bonelle. 

“ Eighty thousand francs ! ” echoed Ramin. Bo you take 
me for Louis Philippe or the Bank of France ? ” 

“ Then we’ll say no more about it—are you not afraid of 
leaving your shop so long ? ” 

Ramin returned to the charge, heedless of the hint to de¬ 
part. “ The fact is, my good old friend, ready money is not 
my strong point just now. Brtt if you wish very much to be 
relieved of the concern, what say you to a life annuity ? I 
could manage that.” 

Monsieur Bonelle gave a short, dry, church-yard cough, 
and looked as if his life were not worth an hour’s purchase. 
“ You think yourself immensely clever, I dare say,” he said. 
“ They have persuaded you that I am dying. Stuff! I shall 
bury you yet.” 

The mercer glanced at the thin, fragile frame, and ex¬ 
claimed to himself, “ Deluded old gentleman ! ” “ My dear 

Bonelle,” he continued, aloud, “ I know well the strength of 
your admirable constitution ; but allow me to observe that you 
neglect yourself too much. Now, suppose a good sensible 
doctor—” 

“ Will you pay him ? ” interrogated Bonelle, sharply. 

“ Most willingly,” replied Ramin, with an eagerness that 
made the old man smile. “ As to the annuity, since the sub¬ 
ject annoys you, we will talk of it some other time.” 

“ After you have heard the doctor’s report,” sneered 
Bonelle. 

The mercer gave him a stealthy glance, which the old man’s 
keen look immediately detected. Neither could repress a 
smile : these good souls understood one another perfectly, and 
Ramin saw that this was not the excellent opportunity he 
desired, and departed. 

17 


386 


SEVEN YEARS. 


The next day Ramin sent a neighbouring medical man, 
and heard it was his opinion that if Bonelle held on for 
three months longer, it would be a miracle. Delightful news ! 

Several days elapsed, and although very anxious, Ramin 
assumed a careless air, and did not call upon his landlord, or 
take any notice of him. At the end of the week old Mar¬ 
guerite entered the shop to make a trifling purchase. 

“ And how are we getting on up-stairs ? ” negligently 
asked Monsieur Ramin. 

“ Worse and worse, my good sir,” she sighed. “ We have 
rheumatic pains, which make us often use expressions the 
reverse of Christian-like, and yet nothing can induce us to see 
either the lawyer or the priest; the gout is getting nearer to 
our stomach every day, and still we go on talking about the 
strength of our constitution. Oh, sir, if you have any in¬ 
fluence with us, do, pray do, tell us how wicked it is to die 
without making one’s will or confessing one’s sins.” 

“ I shall go up this very evening,” ambiguously replied 
Monsieur Ramin. 

He kept his promise, and found Monsieur Bonelle in bed, 
groaning with pain, and in the worst of tempers. 

“ What poisoning doctor did you send ? ” he asked, with an 
ireful glance; u I waut no doctor, I am not ill; I will not fol¬ 
low his prescription •, he forbade me to eat; I will eat.” 

“ He is a very clever man,” said the visitor. “ He told 
me that never in the whole course of his experience has he 
met with what he called so much ‘ resisting power ’ as exists 
in your frame. He asked me if you were not of a long-lived 
race.” 

“ That is as people may judge,” replied Monsieur Bonelle. 
“ All I can say is, that my grandfather died at ninety, and 
my father at eighty-six.” 

“ The doctor owned that you had a wonderfully strong 
constitution.” 

“ Who said I hadn’t? ” exclaimed the invalid, feebly. 

“ You may rely on it, you would preserve your health 
better if you had not the trouble of these vexatious lodgers. 
Have you thought about the life annuity ? ” said Ramin, as 
carelessly as he could, considering how near the matter was to 
his hopes and wishes. 

“ Why, I have scruples,” returned Bonelle, coughing. “ I 
do not wish to take you in. My longevity would be the ruin 
of you.” 


SEVEN YEARS. 887 

“ To meet that difficulty,” quickly replied the mercer, 
“ we can reduce the interest.” 

“ But I must have high interest,” placidly returned Mon¬ 
sieur Bonelle 

Ramin, on hearing this, burst into a loud fit of laughter, 
called Monsieur Bonelle a sly old fox, gave him a poke in the 
ribs, which made the old man cough for five minutes, and then 
proposed that they should talk it over some other day. The 
mercer left Monsieur Bonelle in the act of protesting that 
he felt as strong as a man of forty. 

Monsieur Ramin felt in no hurry to conclude the proposed 
agreement. “ The later one begins to pay, the better,” he 
v said, as he descended the stairs. 

Bays passed on, and the negotiation made no way. It 
struck the observant tradesman that all was not right. Old 
Marguerite several times refused to admit him, declaring her 
master was asleep : there was something mysterious and for¬ 
bidding in her manner that seemed to Monsieur Ramin very 
ominous. At length a sudden thought occurred to him : the 
housekeeper—wishing to become her master’s heir—had heard 
his scheme and opposed it. On the very day that he arrived 
at this conclusion, he met a lawyer, with whom he had 
formerly had some transactions, coming down the stairoase. 
The sight sent a chill through the mercer’s commercial heart, 
and a presentiment—one of those presentiments that seldom 
deceive—told him it was too late. He had, however, the for¬ 
titude to abstain from visiting Monsieur Bonelle until evening 
came; when he went up, resolved to see him in spite of all 
Marguerite might urge. The door was half open, and the old 
housekeeper stood talking on the landing to a middle-aged 
man in a dark cassock. 

11 It is all over ! The old witch has got the priests at him,” 
thought Ramin, inwardly groaning at his own folly in allow¬ 
ing himself to be forestalled. 

“You cannot see Monsieur to-night,” sharply said Mar¬ 
guerite, as he attempted to pass her. 

“ Alas ! is my excellent friend so very ill ? ” asked Ramin, 
in a mournful tone. 

“ Sir,” eagerly said the clergyman, catching him by the 
button of his coat, “ if you are indeed the friend of that un- 
happy man, do seek to bring him into a more suitable frame 
of mind. I have seen many dying men, but never so much ob¬ 
stinacy, never such an infatuated belief in the duration of 
life.” 


388 


SEVEN YEAES. 


“ Then you think he really is dying ? ” asked Ramin ; and, 
in spite of the melancholy accent lie endeavoured to assume, 
there was something so peculiar in his tone, that the priest 
looked at him very fixedly as he slowly replied : 

“ Yes, sir, I think he is.” 

u Ah ! ” was all Monsieur Ramin said ; and as the clergy¬ 
man had now relaxed his hold of the button, Ramin passed in 
spite of the remonstrances of Marguerite, who rushed after the 
priest. He found Monsieur Bonelle still in bed, and in a 
towering rage. 

“ Oh ! Ramin, my friend,” he groaned, “ never take a 
housekeeper, and never let her know you have any property. 
They are harpies, Ramin,—harpies ! such a day as I have had; 
first, the lawyer, who comes to write down ‘ my last testa¬ 
mentary dispositions,’ as he calls them ; then the priest, who 
gently hints that I am a dying man. Oh, what a day! ” 

“ And did you make your will, my excellent friend ? ” soft¬ 
ly asked Monsieur Ramin, with a keen look. 

“ Make my will ? ” indignantly exclaimed the old man; 
“ make my will ? what do you mean, sir ? do you mean to say 
I am dying ? ” 

u Heaven forbid ! ” piously ejaculated Ramin. 

“ Then why do you ask me if I have been making my 
will ? ” angrily resumed the old man. He then began to be 
extremely abusive. 

When money was in the way, Monsieur Ramin, though 
otherwise of a violent temper, had the meekness of a lamb. 
He bore the treatment of his host with the meekest patience, 
and having first locked the door so as to make sure that Mar¬ 
guerite would not interrupt them, he watched Monsieur Bo¬ 
nelle attentively, and satisfied himself that the excellent oppor¬ 
tunity he had been ardently longing for had arrived. u He is 
going fast,” he thought, “ and unless I settle the agreement 
to-night, and get it drawn up and signed to-morrow, it will be 
too late.” 

“ My dear friend,” he at length said aloud, on perceiving 
that the old gentleman had fairly exhausted himself, and was 
lying panting on his back, “ you are indeed a lamentable in¬ 
stance of the lengths to which the greedy lust of lucre will 
carry our poor human nature. It is really distressing to see 
Marguerite, a faithful, attached servant, suddenly converted 
into a tormenting harpy by the prospect of a legacy ! Law¬ 
yers and priests flock around you like birds of prey, drawn 
hither by the scent of gold ! Oh, the miseries of having deli- 


SEVEN YEARS. 


389 


cate health combined with a sound constitution and large 
property ! ” 

“ Ramin,” groaned the old man, looking inquiringly into 
his visitor’s face, “ you are again going to talk to me about 
that annuity—I know you are ! ” 

“ My excellent friend, it is merely to deliver you from a 
painful position.” 

“ I am sure, Ramin, you think in your soul I am dying,” 
whimpered Monsieur Bonelle. 

“ Absurd, my dear sir. Dying ? I will prove to you that 
you have never been in better health. In the first place you 
feel no pain.” 

“ Excepting from rheumatism,” groaned Monsieur Bonelle. 

“ Rheumatism ! whoever died of rheumatism ? and if that 
be all—” 

11 No, it is not all,” interrupted the old man with great 
irritability; “ what would you say to the gout getting higher 
and higher up every day ? ” 

“ The gout is rather disagreeable, but if there is nothing 
else—” 


“ Yes, there is something else,” sharply said Monsieur 
Bonelle. “ There is an asthma that will scarcely let me 
breathe, and a racking pain in my head that does not allow me 
a moment’s ease. But if you think I am dying, Ramin, you 
are quite mistaken.” 

“ No doubt, my dear friend, no doubt; but in the mean 
while, suppose we talk of this annuity. Shall we say one 
thousand francs a year ? ’’ 

“ What ? ” asked Bonelle, looking at him very fixedly. 

u My dear friend, I mistook : I meant two thousand francs 
per annum,” hurriedly rejoined Ramin. 

Monsieur Bonelle closed his eyes, and appeared to fall into 
a gentle slumber. The mercer coughed ; the sick man never 
moved. 

“ Monsieur Bonelle.” 

No reply. 

“ My excellent friend.” 

Utter silence. 

“ Are you asleep ? ” 

A long pause. 

“ Well, then, what do you say to three thousand ? ” 

Monsieur Bonelle opened his eyes. 

“ Ramin,” said he sententiously, “ you are a fool; the house 
brings me in four thousand as it is.” 


390 


SEVEN YEARS. 


This was quite false, and the mercer knew it; but he had 
his own reasons for wishing to seem to believe it true. 

“ Good Heavens ! >’ said he, with an air of great innocence, 
“ Who could have thought it, and the lodgers constantly run¬ 
ning away. Four thousand ? Well, then, you shall have four 
thousand.” 

Monsieur Bonelle shut his eyes once more, and murmured 
“ The mere rental—nonsense •! ” He then folded his hands on 
his breast, and appeared to compose himself to sleep. 

“ Oh, what a sharp man of business he is ! ” Ramin said, 
admiringly : but for once omnipotent flattery failed in its 
effect: “So acute! ” continued he, with a stealthy glance at 
the old man, who remained perfectly unmoved. “ I see you 
will insist upon making it the other five hundred francs.” 

Monsieur Ramin said this as if five thousand five hundred 
francs had already been mentioned, and was the very summit 
of Monsieur Bonelle’s ambition. But the ruse failed in its 
effect; the sick man never so much as stirred. 

“ But, my dear friend,” urged Monsieur Ramin, in a tone 
of feeling remonstrance, “ there is such a thing as being too 
sharp, too acute. How can you expect that I shall give you 
more when your constitution is good, and you are to be such a 
long liver ? ” 

“Yes, but I may be carried off one of those days,” quietly 
observed the old man, evidently wishing to turn the chance of 
his own death to account. 

“ Indeed, and I hope so,” muttered the mercer, who was 
getting very ill-tempered. 

“ You see,” soothingly continued Bonelle, “ you are so 
good a man of business, Ramin, that you will double the 
actual value of the house in no time. I am a quiet, easy per¬ 
son, indifferent to money; otherwise this house would now 
bring me in eight thousand at the very least.” 

“ Eight thousand ! ” indignantly exclaimed the mercer. 
“ Monsieur Bonelle, you have no conscience. Come now, my 
dear friend, do be reasonable. Six thousand francs a year (I 
don’t mind saying six) is really a very handsome income for a 
man of your quiet habits. Come, be reasonable.” But Mon¬ 
sieur Bonelle turned a deaf ear to reason, and closed his eyes 
once more. What between opening and shutting them for 
the next quarter of an hour, he at length induced Monsieur 
Ramin to offer him seven thousand francs. 

“ Very well, Ramin,, agreed,” he quietly said ; “ you have 


SEVEN YEARS. 


391 


made an unconscionable bargain.” To this succeeded a violent 
fit of coughing. 

As Ramin unlocked the door to leave, he found old Mar¬ 
guerite, who had been listening all the time, ready to assail 
him with a torrent of whispered abuse for duping her “ poor 
dear innocent old master into such a bargain.” The mercer 
bore it all very patiently; he could make allowances for her 
excited feelings, and only rubbed his hands and bade her a jovial 
good evening. 

The agreement was signed on the following day, to the in¬ 
dignation of old Marguerite, and the mutual satisfaction of the 
parties concerned. 

Every one admired the luck and shrewdness of Ramin, for 
the old man every day was reported worse; and it was clear 
to all that the first quarter of the annuity would never be paid. 
Marguerite, in her wrath, told the story as a grievance to every 
one: people listened, shook their heads, aud pronounced Mon¬ 
sieur Ramin to be a very clever fellow. 

A month elapsed. As Ramin was coming down one morn- 
iug from the attics, where he had been giving notice to a poor 
widow who had failed in paying her rent, he heard a light step on 
the stairs. Presently a sprightly gentleman, in buoyant health 
and spirits, wearing the form of Monsieur Bonelle, appeared. 
Ramin stood aghast. 

“ Well, Ramin,” gaily said the old man, “ how are you 
getting on ? Have you been tormenting the poor widow up¬ 
stairs ? Why, man, we must live and let live ! ” 

“ Monsieur Bonelle,” said the mercer, in a hollow tone, 
“ may I ask where is your rheumatism ? ” 

“ Gone, my dear friend,—gone.” 

“ And the gout that was creeping higher and higher every 
day,” exclaimed Monsieur Ramin, in a voice of anguish. 

“It went l'ower and lower, till it disappeared altogether,” 
composedly replied Bonelle. 

“ And your asthma—” 

“ The asthma remains, but asthmatic people are proverbial¬ 
ly long-lived. It is, I have been told, the only complaint that 
Methuselah was troubled with.” With this Bonelle opened 
his door, shut it, and disappeared. 

Ramin was transfixed on the stairs; petrified with intense 
disappointment, and a powerful sense of having been duped. 
When he was discovered, he stared vacantly, and raved about 
an excellent opportunity of taking his revenge. 

The wonderful cure was the talk of the neighbourhood, 


392 


SEVEN YE AES. 


whenever Monsieur Bonelle appeared in the streets, jauntily 
flourishing his cane. In the first frenzy of his despair, Bamin 
refused to pay; he accused every one of having been in a plot 
to deceive him; he turned off Catherine and expelled his 
porter;. he publicly accused the lawyer and priest of con¬ 
spiracy; brought an action against the doctor, and lost it. 
lie had another brought against him for violently assaulting 
Marguerite, in which *he was cast in heavy damages. Mon¬ 
sieur Bonelle did not trouble himself with useless remon¬ 
strances, but, when his annuity was refused, employed such 
good legal arguments, as the exasperated mercer could not 
possibly resist. 

Ten years have elapsed, and MM. Bamin and Bonelle 
still live on. For a house which would have been dear at 
fifty thousand francs, the draper has already handed over 
seventy thousand. 

The once red-faced, jovial Bamin is now a pale, haggard 
man, of sour temper and* aspect. To add to his anguish, he 
sees the old.man thrive on that money which it breaks his 
heart to give. Old Marguerite takes a malicious pleasure in 
giving him an exact account of their good cheer, and in ask¬ 
ing him if he doos not think Monsieur looks better and better 
every day. Of one part of this torment Bamin might get rid, 
by giving *his old master notice to quit, and no longer having 
him in his house. But this he cannot do ; he has a sacred 
fear that Bonelle would take some excellent opportunity of 
dying without his knowledge, and giving some other person 
an excellent opportunity of personating him, and receiving 
the money in his stead. 

The last accounts of the victim of excellent opportunities 
represents him as being gradually *worn down with disappoint¬ 
ment. There seems every probability of his being the first 
to leave the world j for Bonelle is heartier than ever. 


SEVEN TEARS. 


393 


THE EXPERIENCES OF SYLVIE DELMARE. 

CHAPTER I. 

It was the eve of New Year’s day. I sat alone in the 
dining-room, now cold and dark; the drawing-room door was 
slightly ajar; I could sec my step-mother sitting by the fire¬ 
side ; she looked smiling and pleased ; her two daughters 
stood talking and laughing together on the hearth-rug; the 
lamp was still unlit, but the fire burned with a bright, cheer¬ 
ful glow; I turned away my glance with a saddened heart. 

This was the last day of the year, the day of Saint Syl¬ 
vester, my patron saint,—yet who had offered me the bouquet 
of choice flowers 1 who had embraced me tenderly, and wished 
that this my fete-day might be gay and happy ?—No one. 

It had not always been so. I remembered the wonderful 
nosegay my poor father never failed to provide on this day for 
his little Sylvie ; the mystery with which he placed it in her 
room, so that it might be the first object to greet her sight 
when she woke; his apparent surprise as to how it had come 
there ; and then the sudden smile, the embrace and fond kiss, 
all came back; but this was- over now; he had been dead a 
year and more. I was a portionless orphan of sixteen, and 
the only legacy my father—a retired officer whose pension 
died with him—had been able to bequeath fo a step-mother, 
good indeed, but cold. 

They had loved in youth, but been compelled to part. 
She was united to a rich old* man; my father loved again and 
married—my mother, who died young; I was their only child. 
He had been a widower for several yearfe, when he met once 
more his early love; she also was free, with two daughters 
and a handsome fortune: they.married. They were happy, 
but the fervour of their youthful attachment was over; my 
step-mother could scarcely forgive her husband the love he 
had felt for his first wife; I saw that she was jealous of the 
past, and that it pained her to look on me, because I was said 
to be my mother’s living image. Yet when my father was on 
his death-bed she promised him, of her own aecord, to bring 
me up with her daughters, and treat me as her child. She 
was an honourable woman, and rigidly fulfilled this engage- 

17* 


394 


SEVEN YEARS. 


ment. I shared the studies of Josephine and Louise, I was 
dressed like them, I went out with them, and partook of all 
their pleasures; but my step-mother was a woman ; I was the 
daughter of her rival, and she could not love me. 

My feelings for her were contradictory. I sometimes 
loved and sometimes disliked her. I resented her indifference 
or blessed her goodness by turns. I would have given any¬ 
thing to be loved by her; I had even made a few timid at¬ 
tempts'; ,but disheartened at their failure, I at length kept 
aloof, and widened that line of separation which she had im¬ 
perceptibly established betwixt us. Yet the knowledge of her 
coldness always grieved me, and it was this that saddened me 
as I saf *in the dining room, unmissed and undisturbed, on the 
eve of New Year’s Lay. 

Ere long I heard the great drawing-room door open ; then 
a servant came in and laid down something on the floor. 
Louise and Josephine uttered exclamations of delight. 

“ Beautiful! lovely ! ” they Loth cried. I heard the 
rustling of silk. I knew the New Year’s presents were come, 
that mine was amongst the rest, but I would not lobk, nor 
even confess to myself that I cared to look. 

“ I' am glad otf like them, piy darKngs,” said the gentle 
voice of my step-mother ; “ where is Sylvie ? ” 

u Moping, of course,” replied the charitable Louise. 

11 Of course ! ” echoed her no less charitable sister. 

I was called, and came forth resolved not to be pleased ; 
but my heart relented at once when I saw the three dresses 
. of blue silk lying on the sofa. I took up mine, looked at it, 
and turne.d towards my step-mother with flushed cheeks and 
sparkling eyes. X felt glad and grateful; I longed to go up 
to her, to say something, to embrace her, but there was little 
encouragement in her cold tone a£ slie _ said, “ Sylvie, here is 
•your New Year’s Lay present,”-none in her calm face; be¬ 
sides, she was absorbed in looking at her daughters, who were 
already trying on their dresses. I sighed and followed their 
example. When Louise and Josephine had been sufficiently 
admired by their mother, mid had placed themselves at every 
possible distance'for her to see how they looked, she turned 
towards the corner where I stood apart and unheeded. She 
looked at me, then at her daughters, then’at me again, and a 
change canle over her placid countenance. I felt distressed, 
for I knew wh#t was passing in her mind. The daughters of 
my step-nlother were wholly unlike her; she was pretty still, 
fair and delicate; they were dark, coarse-skinned girls, with 


SEVEN YEARS. 


395 


hair as crisp as that of mulattoes. I certainly was not hand¬ 
some, but nature had given me a profusion of golden-coloured 
hair, blue eyes, and tire clear complexion of youth. I know 
not under what maternal delusion my step-mother laboured 
when she chose a light blue as the colour for the three dresses; 
certain it is the effect for her daughters was deplorable. 
They, poor girls, saw nothing of this, but she did, and as the 
colour happened to become me very well, she suffered doubly. 

I felt truly grieved. I would have given up all* the 
dresses in the world for one kind glance, for one word of af¬ 
fection. I looked at my step-mother wistfully; I wished her 
to understand what I felt; but my appealing look met with no 
reply- her countenance was overcast, and her eye averted 
from me. My pleasure vanished, the present gave me no joy ; 
for though I had not worn it more than a few minutes, it had 
already been the cause of pain to the giver. I left the apart¬ 
ment in silence, and went up to my own room more sad than 
ever. What a difference between this and my father’s pres¬ 
ents ! He had once given me a little printed muslin dress not 
worth more than a few francs, but I remembered the delight 
with which I tried it on, and got up on a chair to see myself 
in my very diminutive mirror, and thought how gracefully'the 
skirt fell in long and ample .folds, and how charming and be¬ 
coming a dress it was altogether. But the costly silk yielded 
me no such gratification; I sat down, heedless of creasing it, 
and without so much as giving one glance at the looking- 
glass. My heart was very full; I thought of old times; of 
my dead father; of my step-mother, whom I could have loved 
so dearly if she would only have allowed me; of my loneliness 
in this world, where no one cared for me. u Oh ! that some 
one would only, let me love a great deal, and love me a little 
in return,” I exclaimed inwardly. 

My look here fell on an object which had escaped it until 
then: it was only a nosegay of white flowers, standing in a vase 
on my dressing-table, but it made my heart beat as I drew near 
it, and when I bent to inhale the fragrance of the pale blos¬ 
soms, the tears I had striven to repress till then, fell fast. I 
*kuew it was the old servant Catherine who had placed those 
flowers there. She, who had known me from a child, loved 
me; she had not forgotten that this was the fete-day of her 
little Sylvie. I felt comforted, and almost cheerful. There 
is something in true kindliness that opens the heart. What 
could old Catherine do for me? Nothing; her good-will was 
about as useful to me as the flowers she had placed in my 


396 


SEVEN YEAES. 


room in my absence, yet both gladdened me, gave me new feel¬ 
ings and new hopes. I paced my room with a quick step, 
forming schemes for the future, and building castles in 'the air. 

“ I will not stay here to have my heart daily wounded,” I 
thought with rising pride; “ I will not stay to be a burden to 
those by whom I am not loved: I will write to my god¬ 
mother.” 

I looked at my god-mother’s portrait as it hung on the wall 
before me, in order to confirm myself in this resolve. The 
face was young, and, if not good-looking, at least good-na¬ 
tured. But it had been drawn many years back, and I knew 
that the respected original had now attained a good old age. 
She lived in a quiet little town twenty leagues off; I had no 
remembrance of her, and, to my knowledge, she had never 
sought to see me. I dutifully wrote to her on the first day 
of the year, and on the eve of her fete-day. She gave me a 
short answer and her blessing: to this was our intercourse 
limited. 

But I was young and romantic, and I had always settled 
it in my mind* that my god-mother, a rich old maid, with mo 
near relatives, was to be the good fairy of my destiny. Now 
was the moment to test her. My New Year’s Bay letter was 
not yet written; I framed it according to my present mood. 

At the end of a week I received the desired reply. My 
step-mother seemed a little surprised at my god-mother’s invi¬ 
tation for an indefinite period, but observing “ that Mademoi¬ 
selle Tournelle probably meant to adopt me,” she quietly gave 
her assent. When the day fixed for my departure arrived, I 
perceived that I felt more sad than joyful at the success of my 
scheme. It seemed unfriendly to leave the familiar place, the 
step-mother, who, with all her coldness, had been so very good • 
the two girls, who, though often unkind, had called me sister. 
My heart yearned towards them in spite of repelled affection 
and wounded pride; but they had so such feelings. Louise 
and Josephine saw me depart with evident pleasure; their 
mother gave me a cold embrace, that checked the thanks for 
past kindness ready to fill from my lips, and when I entered, 
the little car that was to convey me to the diligence in the 
neighbouring town, no one, save old Catherine, stood on the 
doorway to see me depart, and wish me a happy journey. 


SEVEN YEARS 


397 


CHAPTER II. 

Long before I bad reached my destination, I had comfort¬ 
ably settled it in my own mind that my god-mother was an 
angelic old lady, w r ho would soon doat upon me, for whom I 
should entertain great affection and respect, and who would 
find in me the staff and comfort of her old age. That she was 
a most noble-hearted, amiable person I could not doubt, for 
she had been betrothed in youth to a gentleman who died 
young, and for whose sake she was still a spinster, at the age 
of seventy. 

It was late when I arrived. The house of my god-mother 
stood on the outskirts of the town ; it was a quiet-looking place, 
with a narrow strip of garden. The diligence stopped; I 
alighted ; my trunk was lowered down on the pavemeQt; the 
guard blew his horn; the postillion cracked his whip, and the 
lumbering vehicle clattered down the narrow street. I gave 
the bell a timid, hesitating jerk; a heavy step was heard in 
the passage, then the door opened, and an enormously stout old 
servant, holding a light in her hand, appeared on the threshold. 

“ Mademoiselle Tournelle,” I said in a low tone. 

The servant eyed me from head to foot, held up the light 
to see my trunk, then slowly looked at me again. The night 
was cold, the wind blew keenly, I became impatient. 

u Mademoiselle Tournelle,” I said again. 

“ Do you think I am deaf ? ” was the gracious answer of 
the fat servant. She condescended, however, to let me enter, 
and even bent her majestic person for the purpose of lifting up 
my trunk. After the most desperate efforts, she succeeded in 
dragging it in, puffing very hard, and eyeing me askance all 
the time. Out of breath with this painful exertion, she si¬ 
lently pointed to a door on her right: I entered. The room 
was low, small, and oppressively warm. A large wood fire 
burned on the hearth ; I felt a thick carpet under my feet; a 
lamp suspended from the ceiling, gave a narrow circle of faint, 
dim light, and left the rest of the room in comparative obscur¬ 
ity. A wide couch, old high-backed chairs, a mahogany press 
that reflected the fire-light in its broad polished panels, met my 
rapid glance. I looked for my god-mother, but all I could see 
was a dark massive-looking arm-chair by the fireside, and an 
old cat asleep on the hearth-rug. I was wondering whether 
my god-mother would soon make her appearance, when I heard 
a husky cough, which seemed to* proceed from the depths of 


398 


SEVEN YEARS. 


the arm-chair, and something strongly resembling—in the 
dark—a large black bundle, began to agitate itself in the same 
quarter. I came quickly forward. I felt I stood in the pres¬ 
ence of my god-mother—I was a foolish little thing in those 
days; I know not why a mist came over my eyes, and I know 
not how, instead of merely taking my god-mother’s extended 
hand, I found myself on my knees before her, crying over the 
hand I had seized* as if my heart would break, and sobbing 
“ Marraine, Marraine! ” 

“ Oh ! mon Dieu ! who is this ? Is she mad ? Help ! 
Marianne ! ”—a bell was rung violently—“ the young lady is 
ill; pick her up, and ”—wheeling back her chair—“ mind you 
do not let her come near me.” 

There was no need to pick me up. I was on my feet in 
an instant, crimson with surprise and shame. 

“ Is it a fever ? ” continued my god-mother, still wheeling 
back lier chair, until it had reached the wall. “ Is it con¬ 
tagious ? ” A scent-bottle was at her nose directly. 

I stammered forth that I was quite well. 

“ Are you sure of it ? ” .said she, eyeing me cautiously; 
quite sure that you do not feel feverish ? Are you subject to 
fits, or was it only a fall ? Are you hurt ? Oh ! you need 
not show me. Marianne, see if the young lady is hurt.” 

I shortly answered that I was given to no fits, and had 
sustained no injury. 

“ Then bring us in the supper, Marianne, it will do us 
good; and you, my dear child, sit down opposite me on the 
other side of the fire-place that I may see you.” So speaking 
my god-mother wheeled slowly back to her former place, keep¬ 
ing her eye on me all the time, and remaining at a prudent 
distance. I took the seat she pointed out, and being still 
astonished and confused, eyed her with a bewildered glance. 

I had thought Marianne stout, but, compared to her mis¬ 
tress, she was a light and agile maiden. Mademoiselle Tour- 
nelle was the broadest lady I ever beheld ; the horizontal line 
predominated throughout her whole person. I never saw any¬ 
thing so compact as herself and the arm-chair together : she 
fitted in the arm-chair, and the arm-chair fitted to her with 
mathematical accuracy; I thought of a plump oyster in its 
shell, and wondered whether she ever got out of it. 

After looking at me for some time, and becoming convinced 
of my harmlessness, my god-mother hoped, in a husky voice 
that my fall had not hurt me. I explained that it was not ex¬ 
actly a fall had brought me a*t her feet. 


SEVEN YEAES. 


399 


“ Oh! ” she slowly said, “ I thought it was; you see at 
my age people have done with kneeling, weeping, and senti¬ 
ment : things which only tend to disturb the digestion.” 

I murmured an apology. 

“ Never mind. So you were not comfortable at home.” 
I wished to explain, she would not allow me—“ No details, my 
dear child, they are useless and distressing things : I can im¬ 
agine. Take off your cloak and bonnet; here comes the 
supper.” 

Marianne entered, bearing a covered dish, from which a 
fricassee of hot rabbit sent forth a most savoury odour. My 
god-mother’s little black eyes sparkled, her lips moved and 
moistened, she wheeled her chair to the table, smoothed down 
the table-cloth, opened and spread out her own immaculate 
napkin, and, with her eyes on tile dish, she softly rubbed her 
fat white hands. She did not seem in any hurry j no, she 
waited for the happy moment in a sort of placid beatitude, that 
bespoke the serenity of her mind. 

u So this is my god-mother!” thought I, watching her 
picking the choice bits out of the dish, with all the candour of 
genuine selfishness and gourmandise. 

“ Do you like hot fricassee of rabbit, my dear ? You do. 
I am so glad. There is nothing more uncomfortable than 
want of sympathy. I was to have married a gentleman, a good 
man certainly, but with whom I could never agree. He de¬ 
tested my fricassee, and I detested his pate de foie : it ended 
by carrying him off, as I had always predicted.” 

After supper, which lasted for an hour, my god-mother, not 
seeming to think that I might be fatigued and need rest, asked 
me to read her- to sleep with a newspaper: in two minutes she 
was in a comfortable doze, which lasted half an hour. At the 
end of that time she woke up quite refreshed, and rang the 
bell. Marianne entered, carrying a tray covered with delica¬ 
cies, which she placed on a convenient little table at my god¬ 
mother’s elbow; she next brought forward a very comfortable 
high-backed chair, then a soft cushion for the feet, and placing 
both opposite the fire, composedly seated herself near her mis¬ 
tress, with whom she began to discuss the menu of the next 
day’s dinner. • 

“ Potage au riz, Marianne, it is long since we had any.” 

a I have no objection to the potage; but you must have 
cotelettes au basilic for the second course.” 

“ With a poularde a.la bourgeoise,” placidly suggested my 
god-mother. 


400 


SEVEN YEARS. 


“ No, indeed,” snappishly said the cook, “ you. shall have 
ducks en hochepot, and be glad to get them too.” 

My god-mother yielded the point with a sigh: she evi¬ 
dently requested the poularde. The third course was extremely 
stormy : the mistress insisted on partridges, the cook declared 
she should be satisfied with a poulet a la reine. Overpowered 
with fatigue, I fell asleep as they renewed the quarrel over the 
dessert. 

I remained with my god-mother a whole year, during 
which I was oppressed with comfort, and loaded with good 
things. There was not a genuine angle in the whole house. 
Everything was softened down, cushioned, and rounded off, as 
if for the use of the most fragile being. The beds of painful 
softness were shrouded in by drowsy-looking curtains; the 
doors had thick coats of wadding on, and flew open before the 
slightest touch; there were thick blinds to keep out the light, 
and high screens to keep off the wind; the chairs were vast 
and deep, the cushions soft and easy. But what was this to 
our perpetual feeding ? Breakfast at eight, dejeuner a la 
fourchette at eleven, gouter at two, dinner at six, and supper 
at nine. At the end of a week I declared I could not possibly 
partake of more than three meals a day, and sank for ever in 
the esteem of my god-mother and her cook Marianne. 

For all this she was one of the most good-natured of selfish 
gourmands, quite ready to do a kindness, if she were only put 
in the way. This indeed was an indispensable condition. I 
do not think she doted on me, and my romantic fancies of 
being the staff and comfort of her old age certainly vanished 
on nearer view; yet she liberally paid masters to attend me 
when I expressed a desire to continue my studies, and author¬ 
ised me to open a subscription with the circulating library, as 
soon as I had hinted a wish for a higher sort of literature than 
that which was to be found in her cookery books. She even 
allowed me to read her to sleep of an evening with some ro¬ 
mantic tale, provided it were not of a painful nature, and that 
all ended comfortably, for, as she wisely observed, “ life, 
whether in fiction or reality, should always be like a good din¬ 
ner, and close with the dessert.” 

We were enjoying ourselves after this fashion on a quiet 
winter’s evening, and my god-mother had just dropped off into 
her usual doze, when I heard a carriage stopping at the door. 
The bell was rung violently; Marianne opened, and in a few 
seconds entered the parlour. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


401 


<! Madame,” said she, with a bewildered look, “ a lady— 
your sister, she says—wishes to see you.” 

I had never heard of my god-mother having more than one 
sister, who had died, or was said to have died, in America. I 
conjectured this was she or her ghost, and the horror-struck 
look of Mademoiselle Tournelle showed me she had come to 
the same conclusion. Before she could recover or even answer, 
the visitor entered. She was a tall, thin, pale-faced woman, 
clad in black from head to foot, with feathers in her bonnet, 
that waved like the plumes of a hearse, and along black velvet 
cloak, not unlike a pall. Her slow, majestic pace completed 
her funereal appearance. She paused on the threshold, and 
exclaiming with a broken sob, “ Where is she ? where is my 
own darling sister ? ” 

■She opened her arms to receive my transported god-mother. 
But, apart the effort it would have been to rise so soon after 
dinner, Mademoiselle Tournelle was too much stupefied to 
dream of doing aught save staring with a secret horror at her 
sister, who accordingly fell upon her bosom, and vowed with 
many a sob, “ that since they had met again, death alone 
should part them; that she—my god-motlier—need not fear, 
for that her own Rosalie would never, never leave her.” 

I never saw so tearful and melancholy a being as this same 
Rosalie. She embraced her sister and wept; she drew 
away to look at her and wept, and when I thought she had 
fairly given it up, she hugged her again with another sob and 
a fresh burst of tears. My god-mother endured' all* with as 
much mental as physical helplessness: to protest or resist was 
as impracticable a feat as to leave her arm-chair and* fly. 

The mournful Rosalie, though still weeping abundantly, had 
enough self-possession left to go and dismiss the fiacre at the 
door, and haggle about the fare with the driver. When this 
important task—which ended in the utter discomfiture of the 
cabman—was over, she ordered Marianne to take in her lug¬ 
gage, and walked up-stairs herself, for the purpose of selecting 
the best of her sister’s spare bed-rooms. My poor god-mother 
never moved once all the time. Alarmed at her mute despair, 
I sought to comfort her, but all she could or would say was 
that “since Rosalie, instead of being dead—as she ought to 
have been—was alive and well, it must be she who was destined 
to leave this world.” She closed her eyes and feebly shook 
her head when I endeavoured to remove this painful impres¬ 
sion. I perceived at supper how deeply this idea had taken 
hold of her mind. We had a hot fricassee of rabbit, but 


402 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


scarcely had my god-mother tasted the first mouthful, when 
she laid down heh fork, and giving me a mournful look ex¬ 
claimed : 

u No mushroom! ” 

In her agitation, Marianne had—for the first time—for¬ 
gotten that important ingredient, and my god-mother took this 
as a clear warning that she was soon to be called away from 
the good things of* this world. From that fatal day her appe¬ 
tite declined visibly. The ghostlike Rosalie—the mystery of 
whose reappearance was never cleared up—carried her off in 
six weeks. I should have thought half the time quite sufficient, 
but my god-mother had a strong constitution. For six weeks 
her breakfast was disturbed by the lamentations of Rosalie, 
who mourned to think that her darling sister’s years would 
not permit them to be long together; at dinner she heard her¬ 
self besought in pathetic accents “ to be frugal—to remember 
that their dear father had died of apoplexy, and that their 
dearest mother was so dropsical! ” When supper time came 
round, Rosalie wept over her, and told her “ she was fast breaking 
up.” At the end of the six weeks my poor god mother, fairly 
conquered, took to her bed and died. 

I had not loved her very much, yet I grieved for her death. 
She had been kind in her way; besides, it is one of my weak¬ 
nesses to get easily attached to the human faces around me. I 
moreover pitied my poor god-mother, and lamented her un¬ 
happy end. By her will, Mademoiselle Tournelle left her 
property to Marianne, “ as a token of esteem for her high 
talents, and gratitude for her faithful services.” A codicil 
gave me a dow r ry of ten thousand francs, of which the interest 
alone was at my disposal until I became of age. A second 
codicil bestowed. “ on the sister who had shortened her days— 
her forgiveness.” 

Rosalie was loud in her lament: “ she had sacrificed her¬ 
self to an ingrate, incapable of appreciating her devotion.” 
Then suddenly her wrath vented itself upon me, whom she call¬ 
ed “ a little intrigante,” and on Marianne, whom she accused 
of having poisoned her poor dear sister with her abominable 
cookery in general, and a perfidious dish of mushrooms in par¬ 
ticular. How Marianne rose in her wrath, and turned Rpsalie 
out of doors, is a matter foreign to the history of my experi¬ 
ences. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


403 


CHAPTER III. • 

Behold me, kind reader, in a diligence once more, but this 
time on my road to Paris. I am nearly eighteen; my dowry 
yields me the magnificent sum of three hundred francs, but I 
shrewdly conclude that this is not quite enough to live upoD, 
and therefore proceed to the capital, where a host of pupils 
are, of course, ready to avail themselves of my talents,—I 
have taken pains, and am really an accomplished young lady. 

I go to Paris for three reasons: the first, that which I have 
mentioned; the second, that I am determined to see the 
world; the third, that Paris is the present residence of my 
step-mother, under whose guardianship I in some sort consider 
myself, and with whom I have kept up a distant correspond¬ 
ence. She coldly approves my resolve of remaining in some 
respectable boarding-school until I can procure pupils, or a 
situation as governess; and informs me that Josephine and 
Louise have married advantageously in Normandy, our native 
province; but why she herself stays in Paris she does not 
mention. She offers me no home with her, nor, to say the 
truth, do I desire one, for my heart is still sore with the mem¬ 
ory of old times. 

My journey was uninteresting. Paris confused more than 
it dazzled me. The office of the diligence was not far from 
my step-mother’s residence; I hired a fiacre, and was at her 
door within half an hour of my arrival. The house was mean, 
though clean; she lived on the fourth-floor in a small apart¬ 
ment, scantily furnished. This was strange for one of her 
elegant tastes and habits. She received me kindly, but coldly, 
as usual. We spoke of my god-mother. 

“ I wonder she did not leave you more than ten thousand 
francs,” said Madame Delmare; u I thought she would adopt 
you.” 

“ She was very kind,” I replied ; “ I had no claim upon 
her; I have no claim on any one.” My step-mother pressed 
her hand to her forehead; I thought she looked troubled. I 
hastened to speak of Josephine and Louise. 

;c They are so happy,” said the fond mother, with a sudden 
smile and a brightening look. 

I understood all at once : she had given everything up to 
marry her plain daughters, and this thought could make the 
miserable little apartment a sunny and joyful place tor her. 


404 


SEVEN YEARS. 


But why was she not with either of them ? why was she alone ? 
I could not help putting the thought into words. She hastily 
replied “ that it was her own choice, quite her own choice ; she 
had always liked Paris.” . And she gave me an anxious look, 
as if she feared I might not believe her. 

Why is it that, when I beheld her there alone and forsaken, 
hiding her poverty in the bosom of a great and strange city, 
the memory of every past kindness rose so strong within me, 
that my whole heart yearned towards her ? and I could not 
but speak : 


“ Maman,” said I, for I had always named her thus, “ it 
so happens that we are both alone in this strange place. Is 
there anything to prevent us from being together ? I will be 
no burden to you. Indeed, I fancy we might be happier to¬ 
gether.” 

At first she did not answer. 

“ My poor child,” she said at length, “ my health is not 
very good : you would have but a dull life with me.” 

“ I should like it, I should like it dearly,” I eagerly ex¬ 
claimed. u Pray let it be so. You will love me a little for 
my father’s sake, and I will love you a great deal, not for his 
sake only, but for your own sake, and for all the good you did 
to one who had none on earth save you.” 

I laid my hand upon her arm and looked up into her face, 
for indeed my heart was in what I said, and I felt very much 
moved. 

“ Sylvie,” answered my step-mother, in a tremulous tone, 
11 you are a good child, with a kind heart. Gfod will bless you 
for all this.” And drawing me towards her, she kissed me 
and wept. 

The joy her consent gave me showed me how much I loved 
her in my heart. I never spent a happier day or more pleasant 
evening. The reserve she had always inspired me with van¬ 
ished at once. I talked incessantly; firstly, because joy has 
the effect of making me voluble; and secondly, because it was 
so pleasant to hear my own voice calling her “ maman.” 

“ Maman, I shall have so many pupils,” said I, arranging 
my books in the little drawing-room. “ Maman, I shall earn 
so much money,” I observed at dinner—it was rather a frugal 
one. “ I only fear, maman,” said I in the evening, “ that I 
shall scarcely have any time to be at home with you.” 

Maman smiled. She was sitting by the fireside, with 
something of mingled joy and sadness in her look as it rested 
upon me. I sat on a low stool at her feet, building my 


SEVEN YEARS. 


405 


glorious castles in the air, with the zeal and faith of an archi¬ 
tect of eighteen. They stood so clearly before me. That 
very day, within two hours of my arrival, I had taken my ad¬ 
vertisement to be inserted in the Petites Affiches : “ A young 
lady—well educated—good musician—English and Italian— 
terms moderate ! ” What parent or guardian could resist 
this appeal, and be so blind to the great rule of self-interest as 
not to secure my services at once ? 

“ Hainan,” I continued, in my random talk, “ you should 
always wear black silk, nothing becomes you so well. Why 
have you no flowers now ? I know you are fond of them. 
Shall we not remove from here ? As I was coming home 
from the newspaper office I saw a charming fourth-floor to 
let, with a large balcony, quite the thing for your flowers, and 
a handsome room that would do so well for me to have classes 
at home; for you see it would be a great deal more pleasant 
for the pupils to come to me—than for me to be running after 
them, in wind, rain, and every weather; besides the expense 
of taking omnibuses in order to be in time.” 

“ My dear child,” said maman, a little gravely, a you have 
not got the pupils yet.” 

“ But they are coming,” I confidently replied. 

We took the apartment. I spent no little of my ready 
money on furniture for the drawing-room, and especially on a 
large mahogany table, covered with green baize, which I 
destined for the “ classes; ” it was somewhat dear, but one 
pupil at ten francs a month would—as I proved to maman— 
cover the expense in eight months and a half. Upon the 
whole, I thought it cheap, and rejoiced over my bargain. 

There was only one circumstance which mortified me : 
“ the out-door pupils, whom it was so fatiguing to run after in 
wind, rain, and every weather,” delayed making their appear¬ 
ance. I could not understand this. Had my advertisement 
appeared? It had. Were, then, the parents and guardians 
of Paris struck with moral blindness, that they so recklessly 
disregarded the advantages offered to them ? I recapitulated 
inwardly. A young lady—well educated—good musician— 
English and Italian—terms moderate : And yet a whole fort¬ 
night had elapsed, and no answer had come. 

“ There is only one explanation possible,” said I to 
maman; “some unprincipled governess has, by means as yet 
inexplicable to me—but I shall find it out—intercepted the 
answers of my unknown correspondents at the newspaper 
office—I shall have them sent here another time—and carried 


I 


406 SEVEN YEARS. 

off my unhappy and deluded pupils. Nice teaching they will 
get from her ! This is very tiresome, for I shall have to in¬ 
sert another advertisement. But after all,” I consolingly 
added, “ it is only a fortnight lost, for it stands to reason that 
I could not have accepted all the pupils.” 

Maman received this explanation with a doubtful look, but 
she was unwilling to discourage me. 

A second advertisement was, therefore, sent, with the wise 
precautions I have mentioned. But when two days had 
elapsed, and I received no reply, I could not help observing 
with some anxiety : 

“ I fear, maman, she has carried them all off. Of course 
they were all attracted by the first advertisement. Bo you 
think it will be very long before I can find another supply ? ” 

Mainan’s reply was more encouraging than definite; but I 
comforted myself with the “ classes.” I gloried, I may say I 
revelled in the “ classes.” I beheld—in my mind’s eye—the 
long table covered with inkstands, books, and papers, and 
surrounded by attentive pupils, who hung upon my words. 
I—preserving that gravity which should never desert a 
teacher—seriously expound that which it is my object to 
teach, patiently listen to timid objections, and gently explain 
all difficulties away. At the end of every month I receive the 
moderate sum of ten francs from each pupil—it is fifteen if 
they remain an hour extra, see last paragraph but one of the 
prospectus. These ten francs all put together make a hand¬ 
some pile of five-franc pieces, which I display to the astonished 
gaze of maman, and out of which I secretly buy her a rich 
black silk dress. Instead, however, of reproving me for my 
extravagance, she merely says : 

“ Sylvie, my dear, your pupils are not coming.” 

The dream vanishes at once, and I waken with a perturbed 
spirit, for if I get no pupils, what becomes of the “ classes ? ” 
Bate, who then entered the apartment under the shape of our 
portress with a letter in her hand, spared me the trouble of a 
reply. I broke the seal with trembling fingers. 

“ A pupil! a dozen, for all I know,” I joyously exclaimed; 
“ Mademoiselle Benoit—an old aunt I will warrant, with a le¬ 
gion of nieces—wants me; she lives close by ; how delightful! ” 

It was not in maman’s power to moderate my transports, 
and so with a smile and a sigh, and a recommendation to 
secure advantageous terms, which I answered with a shrewd 
look, she saw me depart on my blissful errand. 

I was at the door of Mademoiselle Benoit in five minutes 


SEVEN YEARS. 


407 


but I walked upstairs with a cool business-like air, lest the 
portress should by any means know my errand, and suspect 
this was my first pupil. Indeed, I was resolved to be greatly 
on my guard, and I decided inwardly that Mademoiselle Be¬ 
noit must be very deep to over-reach me. I found her in 
furnished apartments on the second floor, in her boudoir ; her 
favourite room, she said ; I cannot assert it was her only one, 
but it was the first I entered, and the only door I saw looked 
as if leading to a dark closet, by which I do not mean to imply 
that a whole suit of apartments did not extend beyond. 

Mademoiselle Benoit was about forty, sallow and plain, 
but so juvenile in her attire, that I looked quite matronly by 
her side in my dress of sober brown. Half rising from the 
sofa on which she was reclining, she languidly inquired my 
errand. I explained. She looked incredulous. “ Impossi¬ 
ble ! ” she exclaimed. I nervously produced the letter. She 
eyed it like a person waking from a dream. 

“ Ah! I remember now,” she thoughtfully exclaimed ; 
“ I had forgotten all about it. You need not be astonished, it 
is just like me.” 

I supposed she had a bad memory ! but she shook her 
head. “ Memory—no, it was not that; but we would not 
speak on this subject. She had seen my advertisement, and 
wished to know whether I would mind devoting a few hours 
to her daily, as secretary, reader, and companion.” This was 
not what I had hoped for, but I was in no mood to refuse. 
The next thing I supposed would be the discussion about 
terms, and here I was ready for Mademoiselle Benoit; but 
without alluding to this subject she merely said: 

“ My nerves render this plan imperative. I must place 
myself and my too ardent feelings under the control of a 
calmer mind. Certain agitating books must be read slowly ; 
certain deep emotions must be vented slowly. You under¬ 
stand.” 

I tried to look as if I did, but I was thinking of the terms. 
“ Besides,” she continued modestly, “ unmarried—alone— 
without a male protector in this great city, where I am de¬ 
tained by a vexatious lawsuit—obliged to receive the visits 
of men of business, I really cannot dispense with the pres¬ 
ence of a person of my own sex, to whom I shall look for 
advice and protection.” I felt confounded at the idea of hav¬ 
ing to advise and protect a lady w r ho might, without any 
stretch of fancy-, have been my mamma. Heedless of this, 
she proposed that I should begin my office by reading V ictor 


408 


SEVEN YEARS. 


Hugo’s last volume, and she had already assumed a listening 
attitude, when I faltered out something about terms. She 
looked infinitely shocked, 

“ Terms ! money, mon Dieu ! how could some people be 
so very worldly ? She never thought of money.” 

I inwardly despised myself as a worshipper of mammon— 
well I might in the presence of such high mindedness. She 
pursued : “ Since the odious subject has been mentioned, pray 
what are your terms ] But mind, I know as much of such 
things as a baby.” 

Beautiful ignorance and charming confidence. With what 
agonizing nicety did I calculate the exact sum I might consci¬ 
entiously ask. At length it came out: for three hours h day, 
fifty francs a month. “ Fifty,” she carelessly repeated, her 
mind on other things, her eyes on the ceiling ; then suddenly 
turning them upon me, she added: “ Don’t you think you 
could come for forty ? ” 

“ I do not think I could,” I replied, with some emotion. 

“ But any one would, I assure you,” was her significant 
rejoinder. 

This settled the matter. T perceived that in my ignorance 
I had asked a salary so high as to startle even this ingenuous 
lady. I was distressed, I apologized ; I would have come for 
thirty francs if she had asked me. 

“No apologies,” she said, with a sigh; “ I admire, I 
envy your worldly wisdom. Would I might acquire some 
of it. Vain hope! I, too heedless, too confiding, shall be 
imposed upon to the end. You, so acute, so penetrating—ah ! 
1 envy you. And now a few pages of Victor Hugo, if you 
please.” 

She once more assumed the listening attitude. When we 
had done with Victor Hugo we took up Lamartine: in short, 
we went the round of French poets in two hours. I occa¬ 
sionally besought Mademoiselle Benoit to explain various 
obscure and mysterious passages, with which she seemed par¬ 
ticularly enraptured, but she only turned up her eyes, shook 
her head, and sighed. “ I was happy not to understand such 
things ; I should never seek to understand them ; it was best 
to remain as I was. And now,” she added, “ will you be so 
good as to take a pen, a sheet of paper, and prepare to 
write ? ” 

I complied, and listened with some curiosity, for I felt 
confident she was a muse, at the very least; but she only dic¬ 
tated the following letter : 


SEVEN YEARS. 


409 


“ My dear Cicero, 

“ Be not surprised at the strange handwriting. 1 have 
secured—a step you will approve—a companion, whose pru¬ 
dence and worldly wisdom will greatly benefit your poor 
heedless friend. 

“ I feel anxious about your health, not having seen you 
these two days. I need scarcely say that for the paltry law¬ 
suit I do not care. You know my foolish disinterestedness. 
My opponent, poor man, has set his heart on gaining his 
cause. Pray let him : 1 have a wealth in my thoughts, in my 
feelings, in my heart, he cannot touch. I would say come and 
dine with me to-morrow, did I not know your strict business 
habits ; but you will perhaps call in the afternoon to let me 
know how the case is going on. In the artistic point of view 
I feel deeply interested in it.” 

Mademoiselle Benoit, having signed this letter, requested 
me to fold it up, but suddenly recollecting herself, she begged 
of me to open it again : “ there was a little postscription to 
add.” 

I complied, and added the following P.S. 

“ By the merest chance—a letter from the country—I 
learned, this morning that the grandfather of my opponent 
was a notorious gambler ; that his eldest son, the father of my 
opponent, failed; that his second son, the uncle of my oppo¬ 
nent, was drowned in a very inexplicable sort of way ; and 
that the first wife of my opponent died suddenly, she being 
then alone in the house with her husband. 

“ P.P. S.S. I mention these circumstances, thinking they 
may interest you.” 

The letter, now fairly finished, was directed to a Monsieur 
Everard, whom I conjectured to be her lawyer, and Mademoi¬ 
selle Benoit asked me to post it as I was going home. I found 
maman uneasy at my long absence. Sitting down at her feet 
by the fire-side, I gave her a minute account of all that had 
passed. When I told her about the agreement she shook her 
head. But when I concluded, and looked up into her face 
somewhat anxiously, she only smiled kindly, and said, as she 
smoothed my hair, “ I was a good child, and with a little more 
knowledge of the world I would do very well.” 

I felt relieved, for, to say the truth, reader, I had begun to 
fear that Mademoiselle Benoit had over-reached me, and that 
I had not been quite successful with my first pupil. ^ 

Nothing worth mentioning occurred for three weeks, dur¬ 
ing which I found no other scholar. I comforted myself by 

18 


410 


SEVEN YEAES. 


thinking of the “ classes.” I had ceased to mention them, 
having a vague notion that maman, though unwilling to dis¬ 
courage me, was getting sceptical on this subject, and even 
looked on the green table with an eye of disfavour. I wrote 
—for Mademoiselle Benoit—almost daily epistles to Monsieur 
Everard. whom I never saw, but to whom—and this was 
really provoking—I had to describe myself as “ the grave 
adviser and prudent worldly friend ” of my employer. She 
informed me at the end of the three weeks that her lawsuit 
was over; a great point, and that she had won ; a secondary 
point, of course. Monsieur Everard was to dine with her the 
next day; but unless I consented to be present, she could not 
think of dining alone even with a single man of his years and 
gravity. I yielded, and accordingly dressed a little, a very 
little, better than usual for the occasion. Monsieur Everard 
was already there when I arrived. He was a tall, stiff man, 
but he did not look more than thirty, though grave enough for 
double that age. He wore a pair of green spectacles, which 
gave him a sort of impenetrable look, and which I considered 
symbolical of the mysteries of the law. I thought he eyed 
me with some surprise ; he had probably expected to find his 
client’s “ grave adviser ” somewhat older. He soon resumed 
his conversation with our hostess : they were talking about 
the lawsuit. She had already—charming obliviousness—for¬ 
gotten all about the damages. 

“ It was very foolish ; she knew it was ; but now, posi¬ 
tively, how much was it 1 ” 

“ Fifteen thousand francs,” shortly answered the lawyer. 

“ Oh ! of course: how could 1 1 And the costs you 
say—” 

“ Fall on your antagonist, who being nearly ruined—” 

“ Poor man,” quickly interrupted Mademoiselle Benoit. 

“ Asks for time to settle his account.” 

“ Impossible,” she said, with a deep sigh ; u I have—you 
know my weakness—given my brother my solemn word of 
honour there shall be no delay : but pray let him know I pity 
him ; pray do.” 

“ I believe he has not the money,” continued Monsieur 
Everard. 

i( How unprincipled ! ” cried Mademoiselle Benoit, colour¬ 
ing, “ but I remember he has land.” 

“ F)o you wish for a saisie ? ” coolly asked the lawyer. 

“ Oh ! you cruel man, to hint at such a thing ! ” 

“ Then you object to a saisie 1 ” 


SEVEN YEARS. 


411 


“ Alas ! why is it inevitable 1 ” 

“ Mademoiselle Benoit, I am a plain man: do you or do 
you not wish for a saisie ? ” 

She protested he was the most pitiless man in existence : 
that he put things into her head of which it grieved her to 
think ; that since no other means remained, she must of course 
say “ yes ; ” but that she begged him not to harrow her fool¬ 
ish feelings any longer with so distressing a subject. A pecu¬ 
liar smile curled Monsieur Everard’s nether lip, but he made 
no reply, and bowed coldly. Our charming hostess, anxious 
not to leave us under a painful impression, soon recovered her 
flow of spirits. She gaily taxed the lawyer with his gravity, 
and protested 1 was more sedate than ever. 

“ You have no idea,” said she, addressing him, “ what a 
prudent, calculating head that is. How I am checked, sub¬ 
dued, and brought down to a sober mood, by this grave 
worldly little friend of mine. Oh ! you can have no idea.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said he, with the same smile. 

I coloured, and felt heartily ashamed of my worldliness. 
Dinner was not ready yet, and Mademoiselle Benoit proposed 
a walk in the Tuileries; we acceded. She retired to the room 
that looked like a dark closet, and in a few minutes appeared 
in an elaborate toilette, that threw me quite in the shade. 

The day was fine, the garden was thronged, and our walk 
seemed very pleasant. We had not proceeded far along the 
broad avenue of horse chestnuts, when we met two ladies and 
a gentleman. They gave us a peculiar look, and the gentle¬ 
man observed in a low tone : “ What a charming blonde.” 
They passed on, and left me in a flutter. The green spectacles 
of Monsieur Everard, whose arm 1 held, were on me in a sec¬ 
ond, then as sharply turned towards Mademoiselle Benoit; 
her hair was dark. The compliment could not be for her, yet 
I wondered, and felt incredulous. Two ladies walking together 
had already passed us ; they looked at my companions first, 
then at me, lingered behind, and one whispered to the other : 
“ The blonde is lovely.” What woman can doubt her beauty 
when it is praised by another woman % I confess I began to 
feel uncomfortable on this subject. Had I been handsome 
all along without knowing it 1 Novel heroines always were 
unconscious. Perhaps I was a heroine ! I will not weary the 
reader by repeating all the exclamations of admiration which 
were bestowed on the lovely blonde during our hour’s walk. 
I began to find that there was nothing so astonishing in all 


412 


SEVEN YEAKS. 


this; I had never been counted handsome in the province; 
but who did not know the discrimination of Parisian taste ? 

I was seated at dinner near Monsieur Everard, but neither 
the lawyer nor his green spectacles occupied me much : I was 
thinking of the discovery I had made. 

“ 1 congratulate you on your triumph, Mademoiselle,” he 
observed, after the soup. 

I blushed, and thought he might have spared my modesty. 

“ What triumph % ” asked our hostess. 

“ I should have said the triumph of your taste. Did you 
not hear every one admiring the blonde on your bonnet ? ” 

“ Oh ! it was the blonde then,” I cried, quite bewildered. 
The green spectacles were upon me directly. I became crim¬ 
son. He said nothing, but smiled so significantly that I felt 
I hated him. 

“ Yes,” sighed Mademoiselle Benoit, “ I have been very 
extravagant; my prudent friend there would never forgive 
me if she knew how much that blonde cost.” 

Monsieur Everard gave me another look, but he had 
mercy enough to remain silent, 

I went home vexed with the keen-sighted lawyer, vexed 
with myself and my own foolish vanity. Had I not eyes to 
see the blonde on Mademoiselle’s Benoit’s bonnet % 

I was so mortified that I did not notice maman’s smiling 
and amused face ; but she noticed my downcast look and ques¬ 
tioned me. I told her what had happened ; she laughed, and 
bade me not mind Monsieur Everard or Mademoiselle Benoit. 

“ You have found other friends,” she said. “ What do 
you think of Mademoiselle finding you a husband 1 ” 

My breath seemed gone at this strange suggestion. 

“ Yes,” pursued maman, “Mademoiselle declares that she 
has found you a husband.” 

I have not yet mentioned Mademoiselle. Her name was 
Leonie Moreau, I believe, but I am not sure. No one had 
ever dreamed of calling her otherwise than Mademoiselle. 
She was fifty, brown as a berry, stout, and brisk as a bee, and 
she was Mademoiselle for every one in the house in which 
she had lived for the last thirty-three years. The door of our 
apartment faced hers : we met her often on the -staircase, and 
saw a great deal of her on her balcony, which was a continua¬ 
tion of ours. Maman had a distant acquaintance with some 
of Mademoiselle’s relatives. Thus our knowledge of her 
began, and as Mademoiselle had a warm heart and a lively 
tongue, our friendship progressed rapidly ; to me she took an 


SEVEN YEARS. 


413 


especial fancy. She found me strikingly like a young sister 
of hers, who had died some thirty years before, and she liked 
me for the resemblance more, I believe, than for my own par¬ 
ticular merits. She never saw me watering flowers on the 
balcony without a tear in her eye, that did not check the 
pleasant and habitual smile on her lips, or the cheerful “ Good 
morning ” with which she always greeted me. In my 
“ classes ” and attempts to procure pupils she entered warm¬ 
ly, and did her best, I am sure, to second me, but uselessly ; 
and it probably was her failure in that quarter that had sug¬ 
gested to her the propriety of finding me a husband. How 
she meant to set about this strange task, and what sort of hus¬ 
band it was to be, maman could not or would not tSll me. 

“ Go on the balcony and water your flowers,” she said, 
“ Mademoiselle will be there, and she will tell you all about 


it. 




At first I said I would not go; then curiosity proved 
stronger than pride : I filled my watering-pot and I stepped 
out. A brown face immediately appeared between two tall 
laurel trees standing in pots, and a beaming smile welcomed 
me. 


“ What a lovely evening, Mademoiselle Sylvie,” said the 
gay voice of Mademoiselle. 

A rosy flush spread above the opposite roof, and faded 
away into 'the heavenly blue at the zenith. It was a fine eve¬ 
ning, and I said so whilst I watered a rose tree. Mademoi¬ 
selle’s head stretched out as far as it could go, and she confi¬ 
dentially whispered: 

“ I wish you would draw a little nearer, my dear.” 

I obeyed in some confusion, and she half said, half whis¬ 
pered : 

“ I cannot speak loud on account of that odious little thing 
down-stairs. I am confident she listens ; else how could things 
that I have not mentioned to more than half a dozen trust¬ 
worthy people get wind ? It looks suspicious.” 

I confessed it did. 

“ Well, then, my dear, let us speak low. I mentioned to 
your maman this afternoon a little scheme of my own. I want 
you to marry a young cousin of mine. Of course you must 
know more about it before you reply. Well, then, here is an 
exact and most accurate description of my cousin. Pie is 
twenty-eight, tall, dark-haired, and blue-eyed : so he will just 
suit you, who are rather short and fair. Pie has handsome 
features, and a most pleasant countenance. So much for his 


414 


SEVEN YEARS. 


person : his temper is angelic, sweet, and most amiable. His 
means are not great as yet; but he makes money enough, and 
requires but a small dot. Your ten thousand francs will do. 
He is to spend the evening with me after to-morrow, and you 
will just drop in by chance. He will know you by your 
dress, which I shall describe—not a word !—he will not know 
that you know anything about it: so please to look as cool 
and as careless as possible. I mention the circumstance of 
the dress because some other girl might call, and though he 
knows almost all the young ladies with whom I am acquaint¬ 
ed, yet there might be a stray one, and a mistake might oc¬ 
cur. What will your wear ; white muslin or blue ? you look 
well in both.” 

I had a vision of a fastidious young Sultan, handsome and 
scornful, sitting on Mademoiselle’s drawing-room sofa, and 
thence surveying, through his critical eye-glass, a series of fair 
or dark girls passing before him with their most fascinating 
looks, -and I firmly resolved that one of these I should not be. 
But Mademoiselle was a wilful little woman. 1 therefore 
merely said that I was very much obliged to her, and that I 
should think over her kind proposal. She looked at me 
doubtfully. 

“ You are not committed in the least,” she said ; “ I have 
told him nothing, save that you are a good daughter, a charm¬ 
ing girl, and that you have ten thousand francs. He does not 
even know your name, nor where you live, nor the colour of 
your hair. So you see, Mignonne, I could not do things more 
delicately.” 

I repeated that I was very much obliged to her, and suc¬ 
ceeded in changing the subject of discourse. When I went in, 
I told maman all that had passed, and protested I would not 
go and be looked at. 

“ You are wrong, my dear,” said my stepmother, “ Made¬ 
moiselle’s cousin is an. employe; I believe, in a worldly point 
of view, it would be a good match. Besides, what do you 
risk or lose by going ? Mademoiselle has managed everthing 
so well that you are not in the least committed. You will be 
looked at by a man who does not even know your name. 
Where is the harm 1 Besides, is it not so that marriages are 
managed ? You must not be romantic,, my love.” 

In short, I was talked and reasoned into compliance. 

But when the evening came my heart again failed me, and 
I begged of maman not to insist on my meeting that Monsieur 
Renaud, such I understood to be his name, as I really did not 


SEVEN YEARS. 


415 


feel equal to the effort. She shook her head, and said that 
youth would be romantic, but she did not insist, and accord¬ 
ingly sent in a few words of apology to Mademoiselle. 


CHAPTER IV. 

% 

I felt rather amused at the idea of Monsieur Renaud’s 
disappointment, and a little curious to know how he had 
spent his evening. Accordingly, I went out on the balcony 
early the next morning, and had scarcely stepped out when 
Mademoiselle’s window flew open, and Mademoiselle herself, 
heedless of curl papers and n.ight-cap, appeared with as much 
wrath on her brown face as could ever find room there. 

44 Oh ! you naughty thing,” she said, 44 if you only knew 
the mischief you have done ! But I must be fair ; you never 
could imagine it; no one could : it is that odious little thing 
down-stairs! Monsieur Renaud came as agreed. I recapitulat¬ 
ed all your good qualities. I will say it to vex you. I told him 
you were discreet, prudent, without a particle of vanity, and 
that you were to wear a blue dress. Well, he sat waiting, 
burning with impatience, for he is a very ardent young man, 
when who should walk in but Eugenie and her mother, and 
what should Eugenie wear but a blue dress ! I made signs to 
him that she was not the right one, and concluded all was 
right; but, my* dear, I was so provoked. It must have been 
the horrid little thins: down-stairs that let that bold little flirt 
and her designing mother know there was a future husband 
then with me! How they behaved I will not tell you : it 
was disgraceful! Eugenie made love to my cousin before 
my very eyes ! If you had only come in ; well—well—I 
have not had many such evenings. At length they left, and 
before I could open my lips, out flew my cousin: 4 W hat a 
charming, artless girl! I declare I am quite smitten ! ’ 4 It 

was not the right one ! ’ I screamed. 4 This is a bold, forward 
little flirt. I tell you it was not the right one. She could 
not, or rather would not, come.’ 4 Well, then, let her stay,’ 
he replies, 4 1 am quite satisfied with the one I have seen.’ I 
declare I cried with vexation ; but he only laughed, and it he 
marries that little coquette, I shall lay it all to you.” 

I was half amused and half annoyed at this account. I did 
not care about Monsieur Renaud; but I had wanted him to be 
disappointed, to be shown that girls were not at his bidding ; 
not to be courted by a Mademoiselle Eugenie, and to tall in 


416 


SEVEN YE AES. 


love with her forthwith. However, what was done was done* 
and I had no right to complain if another had prevailed where 
I had not attempted to succeed. I was sorry to perceive, how¬ 
ever, that maman was quite vexed. “ You will never get on 
in the world, my dear,” she said, a little sharply, and then she 
chid herself for this little burst of temper, and kissing me, 
said I was a good child for all that. 

My lesson that day proved particularly disagreeable. Made¬ 
moiselle Benoit could not hold her peace on my worldly-mind¬ 
edness and my prudence; and Monsieur Everard, who was 
present, could not help dropping hints that provoked me be¬ 
yond all patience. It appeared from his speech that artless, 
unassuming modesty was the charm of woman in his eyes. 
With a sigh Mademoiselle Benoit asked what woman was 
without that % And so they went on echoing each other, until 
1 had a great mind to get up and walk out. I did not, for 
several very excellent reasons ; but I came home in no very 
pleasant mood. I went out on the balcony, certainly in no 
hopes of meeting Mademoiselle, but there she was however, 
bright and beaming as usual. 

“ My dear,” she said, “ I have such news for you. You 
know what I told you about my cousin, and how smitten he 
was with Mademoiselle Eugenie’s artlessness—” 

“ Indeed, Mademoiselle,” I 'interrupted, feeling vexed at 
hearing so much on that subject in one day, “ indeed I do not 
care about Monsieur Kenaud or Mademoiselle. I am de¬ 
lighted they are mutually pleased; but I really wish to hear 
no more about them.” 

Mademoiselle looked at me with some surprise. 

“ My dear,” she said, “ how warmly you speak. I meant 
no harm, and, moreover, it is all right. My cousin called 
this morning to beg to see the right one, and to assure me 
that when he professed himself so pleased with Mademoiselle 
Eugenie, he was only joking—he has a vast deal of humour. 
In short, he is to come and dine with me this evening, and 
you must come too.” 

Maman supported this suggestion so strongly, that I was 
obliged to yield. It was nearly dinner time, and I had barely 
half an hour for my toilette. I said anything would do, but 
maman, who was unusually fastidious, seemed to think that 
nothing could do. At length we were both ready, and with 
some trepidation on my part, we crossed the landing, and 
rang at Mademoiselle’s door. Mademoiselle’s blooming Nor¬ 
man servant-girl opened to us with a smile, and ushered us 


SEVEN YE AES. 


417 


in. Mademoiselle herself, in the splendour of a pink cap, and 
a brown silk dress, rushed forward to meet us, and clasped 
us both in her arms. She seemed very much excited, and 
almost beside herself. 

“ My dears,” she exclaimed, in an under tone, “ I am so 
glad. My cousin is burning with impatience. He is a very 
ardent young man. I am sure he is quite in a fever of expec¬ 
tation. I know I was. Pray walk into the drawing-room.” 

If I had not felt pretty certain that the fever was all of 
Mademoiselle’s feelings or imagination, this speech of hers 
would have made me very, uncomfortable, but the ardour of a 
man who searched for a wife in the methodical fashion adopted 
by Mademoiselle’s cousin seemed to me very doubtful, so 
doubtful indeed, that there was scarce a flush in my cheek 
when I followed maman into the drawing-room. A gentle¬ 
man, who sat looking over a book of engravings, rose as we 
entered. Pie looked at me, and I looked at him. I saw 
Monsieur Everard. 

“ My cousin, Monsieur Everard Renaud,” said Made¬ 
moiselle ; “ Madame Delmare, her daughter, Mademoiselle 
Syl vie Delmare.” 

I certainly do not know what sort of a feeling sinking in 
the ground produces in the person so sunk, but it seemed to 
me then that to sink through the polished oak floor on which 
I stood, and vanish no matter where, would have been pleas¬ 
anter than to face Monsieur Everard. True, he behaved dec¬ 
orously and well; looked grave and unconscious, but could 
I forget what we had met for, and could he ? Impossible, we 
both knew it: it was dreadful. But from the very misery 
of the position came a sort of relief. I felt convinced that the 
quiet, prudent Monsieur Everard, so strangely described as 
an ardent and enthusiastic young man, would never bestow a 
second thought on the girl of whose credulity and vanity he 
had obtained such recent proofs. This quite set me at my 
ease. Monsieur Everard was no one, and I spoke and acted 
under this feeling. The dinner went off very well; the even¬ 
ing was pleasant. M. Everard made himself agreeable, Made¬ 
moiselle was in ecstasies, and maman very well pleased. 

“ My dear,” said she, when we retired, “ I like that Mon¬ 
sieur Renaud. He is sensible: he is a man of the "world, and 
if you could marry him, or one like him, I should be well 
pleased.” 

I laughed. “ Dear maman,” I said, “ Monsieur Renaud 


18 * 


418 


SEVEN TEAKS. 


and Monsieur Everarcl are one. So just fancy what a chanoe 
I have of either.” 

Mam an was at first taken aback, then she said she did not 
see that. I interrupted her to declare with some warmth, that 
though I was sure Monsieur Everard would not have me, yet 
even if he would, nothing should make me have so hard and 
disagreeable a man. Maman sighed, and feared I was roman¬ 
tic, but did not insist. 

The next day I went to my lesson as usual; Mademoiselle 
Benoit was with her lawyer, and the said lawyer chose to 
be very impertinent, as I thought. He said nothing that 1 
could quarrel with, but his looks and smiles, when Mademoi¬ 
selle Benoit descanted, as usual, on my merits and the advan¬ 
tage I was to her were more than I could endure. I felt 
injured, and went home in such bad humour that it was some 
time before I perceived maman’s pale face, that still bore the 
trace of recent tears. At length I was struck with both, and 
going up hastily to her, I asked what had happened. 

“ A great misfortune, my dear child,” she replied, in a 
tremulous tone. 

“ What is it, maman ? ” 

“ The agent de change, to whom I had confided my rentes 
to dispose of, has absconded to Belgium.” 

This was indeed a woeful blow, but I comforted maman as 
well as I could. I besought her not to leave me for either of 
her daughters, who did not want her as I did; then I said it 
would only be removing to a cheaper apartment and living a 
little more frugally; that I would get scholars yet, and 
“ classes ” too, and that all would be comfortable. She re¬ 
fused for a long time, saying she had no claim upon me— 
which I warmly denied—but she ended by yielding. Hear 
maman ! her heart was sore indeed, but she did not wish me 
to think her own children would be loath to receive her, and 
I felt as anxious not to let her see I knew the bitter truth. 

“ And now, maman,” said I, “ just let me write down the 
name of that agent de change. Who knows but Monsieur 
Everard may give us some good advice ! ” 

She sighed and shook her head as she uttered the name: 
“ Monsieur Durand of Havre.” 

The pen dropped from my fingers. Oh ! it was too much, 
too much indeed. I felt it, and fairly burst into tears. 

“ Sylvie ! my dear child ! what is the matter ? ” cried 
maman. 


SEVEN TEARS. 


419 


ft Alas ! ” I exclaimed, weeping still, “ it is that same Mon¬ 
sieur Durand who has got my money.” 

We passed a weary evening, endeavouring to comfort each 
other, but feeling sad indeed. Maman was more distressed 
for me than for herself. Every time her eyes fell upon me 
they filled with tears. I knew why. The home which w r ould 
receive her would be closed upon me. She felt it keenly. 

“ Oh ! ” she exclaimed, in a tone of deep sorrow, “ what 
would your poor hither say 1 ” 

“ That you acted for the best,” I replied, kissing her. 


CHAPTER V. 

I fear my eyes were still red when I called the following 
day on Mademoiselle Benoit. She was engaged in the uncon¬ 
genial task of receiving a large sum of money, which her law¬ 
yer methodically counted over to her. He bow r ed and smiled 
—much I cared about his smiling !—but she never raised her 
eyes from the table : if was full five minutes before they had 
done. 

“ There, take it away,” she then contemptuously exclaimed, 
addressing some imaginary worshipper of mammon. But no 
one appearing, she rose with a sigh and removed the treasure 
to the neighbouring room, whence we heard various sounds 
of unlocking and locking up again. I thought to take this 
moment to address Monsieur Everard, whom, for many 
reasons, I wished to acquaint with what had happened; but 
he seemed so entirely absorbed by his law papers, and as he 
turned them over his countenance looked so severe, that my 
heart failed me. 

“ Mademoiselle,” he said, suddenly glancing up and catch¬ 
ing my look before I had time to withdraw it, “ do you feel 
unwell % ” 

I told him my little story in a low tone. He looked con¬ 
cerned, and took both the name of the agent de change and 
our address ; “ it was very unfortunate indeed; ” and his 
accent was more kind and compassionate than I could have 
expected from him. Mademoiselle Benoit, who had done 
locking up, had no such weakness. 

“ What! ” she exclaimed, with a noble disdain of riches, 
“ the loss of the vile metal called gold can affect you thus ? 
Oh ! the worldliness of this world ! ” 

She oontinued to comfort me by dwelling so forcibly on 


i 


420 


SEVEN YE AES. 


the charms of poverty and the miseries of the rich, that I 
would have concluded the agent de change was a humane and 
benevolent philanthropist, bent on relieving me and my fellow- 
victims from the intolerable burden of money, if the worldli¬ 
ness which was so strong within me had not absolutely revolted 
against any such conclusion. 

As I was leaving her, Mademoiselle Benoit handed me the 
sum of forty francs. Our “ lessons,” as she was pleased to 
term them, were over with the law-suit, and she was return¬ 
ing to her native province. She warmly thanked me for the 
excellent advice I had given her, and the judicious control I had 
exercised over her feelings. u But, my dear friend,” said she, 
as we parted, “ pray do not be so worldly ; it dries up the 
heart.” 

Thus ended my brief connection with my first pupil. I 
advertised again, but, alas ! in vain. 

Though I drew up a prospectus of my intended “ classes,” 
I grieve to say that the public were so injudicious as not to be 
captivated with my scheme. The classes, in short, proved a 
failure, and the green table which filled all our drawing-room 
being pronounced a perfect bore, was on the point of being 
sold to a broker, when Monsieur Everard, learning our inten¬ 
tion, purchased it. This leads me to observe that the lawyer 
called upon us almost every day, to tell us that the runaway 
agent de change had been heard of, or would be heard of soon, 
or had not been heard of at all. This did not mend the matter 
much, but maman was greatly touched with his disinterested 
zeal, and declared to me she had never met so kind and oblig¬ 
ing a man. It vexed her to perceive that he did not stand 
very high in my favour; but, to be candid, the little he did 
say to me was always of an annoying and provoking nature; 
for after appealing, on one point or another, to my prudence 
and worldly wisdom, with so much gravity that I could not 
but think him in earnest, and candidly gave him my opinion, 
he would suddenly turn round, and looking at me from under 
his green spectacles, say with his own peculiar smile: 

“ And so, Mademoiselle .Sylvie, you thought you were the 
blonde ”—he did not add the epithet “ lovely,” but I knew he 
thought it—“ ah! well, to see how the wisest of us can be 
deceived ! 

The reader must not imagine that, because pupils did not 
come and “ classes ” would not answer, I remained idle. No; 
we had been so fortunate as to procure some embroidery from 
a large shop, and we worked from morning till night to eke 


SEVEN TEARS. 


421 


out a scanty subsistence. I was grieved to see maman thus 
reduced ; for my part, I was young, full of hope, and did not 
mind it. Never, indeed, had I been so happy. What were 
the comforts of my early home, when maman’s heart w'as 
estranged from me ? What was the good living of my poor 
god-mother’s house compared to the pleasures of this humble 
home, where I loved and was loved 1 For maman loved in 
now : I saw it every day in her kindly look, and heard it in 
her gentle voice. 

I had come home one evening with some work, when I found 
Monsieur Everard in earnest conversation with maman. 

“ Mademoiselle Sylvie,” said he, “ I have news for you.” 

“ Indeed,” I shortly replied, for he had teased me about 
the blonde that same morning. 

“Yes, the agent de change was arrested this morning, hav¬ 
ing been fool enough to come back to Paris. I am happy to 
say Madame Delmare’s rentes were all found upon him.” 

I clapped my hands and kissed maman. “ There,” I cried 
joyously, taking her work from her, “ let me never see you at 
this again.” 

“ Be quiet,” said she, smiling, “ you have not heard all 
Monsieur Everard has to say.” 

“ Oh! I know,” I shrewdly observed, “ my ten thousand 
francs are found too.” 

“ Wisely inferred,” said he, with a smile, “ but, alas, I 
grieve to say your ten thousand francs are gone, quite gone; ” 
and he spoke as if he felt glad of it. 

I felt disappointed, but I soon rallied. “Well,” said I, 
resolutely, “ I can work ; cannot I, maman ? ” 

“Yes, my dear, but you have not yet heard Monsieur 
Everard.” • 

I looked at him with some surprise. He did not speak, but 
fidgetted on his chair, coughed, rose, took a turn across the 
room, then came back, still silent, to his seat. I looked at 
maman: she was endeavouring to repress a smile. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said he, whilst a faint tinge of colour rose 
to his cheek, “ I was explaining to Madame Delmare, when you 
entered, a wish I have for some time entertained, and which 
has obtained her approbation. I am a man of few words ; for 
give me if, without further preparation, I simply ask : “ Will 
you become my wife ? ” 

He looked at me; I remained mute. I felt astonished, 
and not triumphant, reader, but very much touched. I was 
neither rich nor handsome; Monsieur Everard was no heedless 


422 


SEVEN YEAKS. 


romantic man: I felt it was not common affection and esteem 
had urged him to this offer. 

u Sylvie,” anxiously said maman, “ why do you not an¬ 
swer ? ” 

Monsieur Everard said nothing, but looked at me with 
evident uneasiness. I had remained silent, not because I 
knew not what I felt, hut because I knew not how to say it; I 
did not say it even then, hut simply held out my hand to him. 
He took it, and with more gallantry than I could have ex¬ 
pected from him, raised it to his lips. I turned my head 
away that he might not see my eyes filling with tears; Maman 
was suddenly seized with a cold in her head; even Monsieur 
Everard did not quite succeed in preserving a business-like 
composure; but we all three felt happy, and soon recovered, 
each keeping up the pretence of not feeling a bit concerned. 

He remained to dinner. He looked a little awkward : I 
believe that in his heart he feared I w r ould retaliate for the 
past; but my only attempt in this way was to ask for the 
green spectacles to be removed. They vanished at my bid¬ 
ding, and allowed me to perceive that the eyes they shaded had 
nothing amiss; but the whole countenance looked strange 
without them; I felt it thus, and before ten minutes had 
elapsed I said : 

“ Pray put on your spectacles again.” 

He smiled and obeyed. Our courtship was brief; it was 
his wish; it was maman’s wish : what could I do but yield up 
the point quietly ? 

I have now been married ten years. I will give the 
reader no account of my marriage experiences, but simply 
describe to him the picture I behold as I write. It is winter : 
my husband is sitting by the fire-side^ talking to Joseph, our 
eldest child. In her easy chair, on the other side of the fire¬ 
place, sits my dear maman; ay, mine, though no drop of the 
same blood flows in our veins. A child is on her knee, a lit¬ 
tle brunette, whose dark hair she smooths from her forehead 
with a gentle touch and a wistful glance; but, reader, that 
child is not mine; it is all that remains of her poor daughter 
Louise, who died a year ago, the broken-hearted widow of a 
ruined man. Josephine offered to bring up the orphan with 
her own children, but maman jealously refused. She went for 
her little Louise, brought her home, never allows a hand save 
her own or mine to touch her, and is always tracing in her 
features a likeness no one save herself can see; for Louise, 
though dark, is truly pretty. 


SEVEN YEARS. 


423 


My child is that little blonde who now endeavours to at¬ 
tract her grandmamma’s attention; and see how maman has¬ 
tens to make room for her bv the side of Louise, and tries to 
look as if one were not dearer than the other. But children 
are restless: Joseph leaves his father, and Louise immediately 
jumps down to join him in a game. Henriette, happy in the 
exclusive possession of her grandmamma, remains nestling with 
her. But though maman encircles her caressingly, her thought¬ 
ful look still follows Louise. She smiles at her joyous spirits, 
at the patronizing tone of Joseph, at the affection of the two 
children, and she makes for the future, plans which I read with 
a smile. She is already fidgetting herself to know whether 
Louise will be rich enough for Joseph ; she is projecting impos¬ 
sible savings out of her narrow income, in order to treasure her 
up a dowry. Dear maman, were it not premature to speak of 
such a thing,—Joseph is eight and Louise five,—I might tell 
you that the point is already settled between myself and my 
husband. Should they be willing, a little money shall neither 
prevent the happiness of two loving hearts nor the fulfilment 
of your cherished dream : that the child of your child may be¬ 
come more closely linked to her on whom you have so long 
bestowed the name, and who truly feels for you the love of a 
daughter. 


THE END. 









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